But Pierce wasn’t even looking. He was preoccupied with telling his story. ‘Quin threatened to go public without me,’ he said. ‘He insisted that I confess and make amends. He said that it reflected badly on him.’ He barked a laugh, eyes wide. ‘On him! How fucking vain can you get? Such concern for his own reputation! He’s completely naive. He thinks that if I say I’m sorry then I’ll be OK. He’s wrong. I made up … I’d say “I made up a story” but that sounds so fucking innocent, so pre-school. I invented people. I invented events. I defrauded my agent, my publisher and the public. I told lie after lie after lie and said to people every time, “this is the sworn truth”. I was praised for my honesty. I’m a monster.’

I wanted, more than ever, to check the DVR in my pocket, to confirm that it was still running, recording these words. But I did not dare. I kept my eyes on Pierce, draining the last of my beer and letting him speak, but hardly listening, thinking only of the recording.

‘All those people who praised it, who praised my courage and candour,’ Pierce continued. ‘The people who wrote to me, the people who invited me to speak … All those people are going to feel like I made fools of them. And I did. Helen Mirren said that it made her cry. In a newspaper. Dame Helen Mirren. What are they going to do? How do I atone for something like that?’

‘Is that what you want?’ I asked. ‘To atone?’

It was Pierce’s turn to be silent. He scowled, giving the question deep, zealous thought.

‘If I’m being honest,’ he began – and I thought, Yes, please be honest – ‘I’d rather die before the truth comes out. But I’ll settle for atonement.’

‘Why did you do it?’ I asked. If I did decide to betray Pierce, the more information I could get out of him while he believed himself to be off the record, the better.

But he was no longer cooperating.

‘I envy you, you know. You’ve done it. You’ve been there – twice. I tried to think of the most primal urban experience possible: being mugged in the street, that was it.’