‘Oh, right.’ I put down the guitar, sat on the edge of the sofa – woozy, woozy. ‘And is he …’ Oh.

‘You’ve gone white, Chris.’ She sat next to me, her hand on my thigh.

‘Just a bit squeamish. I’ll be fine.’

‘He was pretty sanguine. The last time they opened him –’

‘Biddy, I can’t.’ I raised my hand. ‘Sorry.’

‘That’s OK.’

My arms were crossed on my knees, my head on my forearms, breathing deeply – that’s how my father had taught me when I was a boy. There. That was better. There.

‘And your mum?’ I asked.

‘She doesn’t seem too worried. She’s actually had her own … Anyway, never mind … They’re both super positive, though. I mean, for Irish Catholics.’ She got her phone – flicked, flicked, flicked, flicked. I pulled the guitar onto my lap, felt better, no arteries, tuned the B string – it still sounded off. ‘Here,’ she said, passing me the phone, pointing. ‘That’s my mum, Nora.’ Silver hair, blue glasses. ‘And my dad.’ White on top, kindly eyes. ‘You know my dad’s a Chris too? Isn’t that funny?’

‘No way,’ I said. ‘Sarah’s dad too. They’re nice people on the whole. Mine was a Frank.’

She squeezed my leg – I’d told her he was dead, but not how.

‘Oh, look,’ she said. ‘Here’s an old picture, from when they were funeral directors.’

Smiles, big jerseys, lots of hair. Biddy looked like a blend of them, maybe more like her dad, no, an even split. My two were the same. My kids with Biddy, if we ever had them, would be –

‘My mum has an extra finger too. Look …’ She zoomed in on the picture.

‘So she does,’ I said. ‘It’s more like a thumb.’

‘Just a nub.’

‘Same hand as you. How –?’

‘Oh my god, look. Here’s me when I was … gosh, I must have been in my first year at uni.’ Black lipstick, black leather jacket, black tights, powder-white skin: a necrophile’s fantasy. ‘You can probably see where my love of Halloween comes from.’

My phone buzzed.

Zac: Sarah’s phone’s out of battery and we can’t find the charger, dude.

She’s wondering if you’re staying over at Biddy’s.

‘Who’s that?’ I said, pointing. He was cut from the Honig family cloth: tall, broad-shouldered, his arm round Biddy.

‘That’s my brother, Aidan. He killed himself.’

‘Oh, shit. I’m sorry. When was that?’

‘Nearly seven years ago. I’m supposed to be writing a show about him at the moment. I have a four-night run at the Butterfly Club in October.’

‘Oh, right.’ Aidan – his hair unkempt like Biddy’s, the same amber eyes. I hugged her. ‘I’m sorry, I really am. How did he … No, forget it … never mind …’ I hugged tighter.

‘That feels so good,’ she said, squeezing.

‘Yeah, it does.’