The memories come, as I feared they would. I try to push them down but they keep rising, ballooning into my mind. The shock and the panic, arriving at the hospital. The medics rushing up to us, me, Mum and Dad, then rushing away with that little body in their arms … And how later they came back, they came back and told me—

I jerk round at the hand on my shoulder: Alastair, here beside me. ‘I’m free now,’ he says, ‘if you want to talk.’

We go to the big hospital canteen, which reminds me of the one at my old high school: low ceiling, strange smell. I mention this to Alistair, trying to ease the tension, trying to let him know a little more about myself. He just smiles tightly and nods in reply.

We order our drinks: him a coffee and me a green tea. As we queue, it feels as if we’re on some strange, terrible date. We each pay for our own drinks though. I put three sachets of sugar in mine, hoping it will stabilize my dizziness. I’ve dressed smartly to come here, but in the mirror this morning, I could see I looked unwell.

We find a table in a corner. It’s private enough, but the canteen is noisy, every clink and clatter echoing off the walls, voices rebounding all around.

I suppose all hospital canteens look similar, with their clusters of families grouped at the tables. There’s a family of five not far from where we’re sitting: a mum and dad, a teenage girl and two younger boys. I wonder who they’ve come here to visit. A grandparent maybe? Another sibling?

I look across the table at Alastair, trying to concentrate only on him. ‘Are you a nurse here?’ I ask, and Alastair shakes his head.

‘A porter. I take the children round the hospital, wherever they need to go.’

‘You were working here when you knew Sarah too?’

Alastair shakes his head. ‘No. Before that. I knew her from university.’

‘You were at university together?’ I don’t know why this should be a surprise. Why I’d imagine Sarah wouldn’t have had a degree. ‘Where?’

Alastair hesitates for the tiniest moment. ‘Middlesex,’ he says. ‘But I wasn’t—’ Over my shoulder, someone drops a piece of cutlery and it clatters against the floor. I can’t help glancing round.

Alastair pushes aside his paper cup. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says, ‘I’m not making sense of any of this. You say Sarah died, and you’re trying to trace old friends …’

I breathe slowly, carefully. ‘I was the housing manager for the flat where she lived. I wasn’t the one who moved her in, but the flat was on my caseload and … I was there when they found her. I don’t know if you saw the story in the news – about the woman in Brixton and how – and how …’