I have seen funerals in films and TV programmes. I know that people are supposed to get up and speak about the dead person. But there is none of that. The ceremony is a sad, tragic ritual. The minister reads a few short passages from the Bible, though we don’t even know if she was religious, and I recognize the lines about ashes and dust. Another piece of classical music plays, as familiar and generic as the first. It’s as though she was nothing; she was no one. The minister says a prayer for her, and then the plain wooden coffin disappears from view. We all say the Lord’s Prayer together. And then it is over.

I press the heels of my hands into my eyes, fighting to keep my tears at bay. I’ve told myself I shouldn’t get involved, I’ve tried to keep myself professional, but now the whole thing rises up before me in all its pitiable awfulness. Under the dust, her flat looked so normal, books and ornaments, crockery and clothes. But she just lay in there, dead, with people passing outside every day, the whole of the city oblivious to her, London around her grinding on and on. And now here’s a funeral that five people have attended, all of them strangers to her. It’s unbearable, but I can’t stop thinking about it, I can’t stop seeing it, and my chest heaves every time I do.

The group of neighbours are getting up now, ready to make their way out. I wipe away the wet from my cheeks. With stiff fingers, I turn my phone back on; the alert on my voicemail pings. I recognize the number, it’s the CMHT, but I don’t know why they’re calling me. I get up to follow the other attendees, pushing my phone back into my pocket. I didn’t find a way to speak to them before but I can’t leave now without saying anything, I have to try. I have such a sense of helplessness, when I only ever want to help.

I catch one of them – the man – by his elbow, harder than I meant to. He stops and turns, surprised. ‘Did you know her?’ I blurt out. ‘Did you ever speak to her after she moved in?’

The whole little group have stopped now and are looking at me. ‘You’re one of the housing managers, aren’t you?’ one of the women asks, another tenant that I recognize now; I think she lives in staircase C.

I nod, the guilty lump in my throat bigger than ever. ‘I was there when they found her. It was so terrible and I feel … so awful about it. The whole thing is so sad, I just want to understand …’