‘Oh, and we shouldn’t forget that the camera covering the crime scene had been conveniently disabled.’ He smiles. ‘You and me have got a history with cameras, haven’t we, Al?’

‘Graham did that,’ I say. ‘Graham always did that.’

‘And talking about forgetting . . .’

‘Right.’ I’m very cold, suddenly. ‘I was wondering when we’d get to this.’

‘What did Bakshi say, and Marcus? That these blackouts are all perfectly normal. What did Dr Perera say?’

‘I know what they all said, but you’re going to tell me anyway.’

‘It’s understandable,’ he says. ‘When something like this happens. Just because you’re not the victim of a crime or even a witness to it, doesn’t mean you wouldn’t want to wipe it out. Or that the crime wouldn’t wipe itself out.’

My head aches and my guts are churning and I just want to see that smile again and hear him tell me that everything’s going to be all right. I want to make him smile. I screw up my eyes and sniff back the snot. ‘Isn’t this the point where you produce the gruesome photograph?’

‘Some things are just too terrible to remember,’ he says.

‘I remember you!’ I think I’m probably shouting now. ‘I remember every second of what happened that day.’

‘Yeah, but that wasn’t your fault, was it, Al?’

‘It feels like it was.’

‘You don’t understand,’ he says. ‘Back then, you hadn’t done anything . . .’

Johnno’s clearly said his piece, because he starts to fade and I know that when he’s gone, all I’m going to be left with is his blood. Sloshing around in my head. His blood and hers. I’m crying and shivering and I still can’t remember, but whatever’s locked up in some part of my brain which I’ve lost the combination to, there’s one thing I’ve never forgotten.

I lean towards the shadow of him that’s still left.

‘You were always a better detective than me,’ I say.

I don’t know long it is – probably just long enough for me to stop being quite so bloody hysterical – before I pick up the phone and dial my parents’ number.

‘Alice . . . ?’

‘Hey, Mum.’

‘It’s . . .’ She’s reaching to turn the lamp on and looking at the clock-radio on the bedside table. ‘Nearly four o’clock in the morning.’

‘I know. Sorry . . .’

I hear my dad mumble something. He’ll be heaving himself over in bed about now and asking my mum who’s calling, even though at this time of night there really aren’t that many candidates. She mouths my name. Now he sits up and mouths something back. Something like is everything OK? She shakes her head, I don’t know, and takes a deep breath.

‘So, how are you, love?’