Hamza thought for a second. There was a pretty big chance he was getting ripped off massively, but he realized he didn’t care. He wasn’t paying the man for his work. He was paying to get control on his emotions back. If he had all his Clio stuff on one hard drive, and he knew where it was, he could access whenever he needed it and not feel like bits of his brain were falling out. And he was pretty sure this guy, at least, had no idea who he was.

‘Just do what you gotta do, mate. I’m good for it.’

Seven hundred pounds would have been two months’ rent on Clio’s bedsit in Homerton. They’d walk back for over an hour after nights out at the Bar or the Eski, where she’d be self-conscious about being the oldest one there and he’d just be fucking proud to be seen with her. When she entered a room she slayed, didn’t she, and the way she held herself, that face – all those little girls with their flat arses had scowled at her because she was so much more than they’d ever be. Walking home, he’d push her up against a wall on a deserted street, or drag her down alleyways, both of them laughing like kids. She’d pull her tights and knickers aside, shove her skirt up, and he’d come inside her, roaring as she sang out long high notes into his ear, hands clawing at dirty brickwork. Those 4 a.m. orgasms with the night-time cold on his skin.

Stepping out into the street, the fresh air a relief from the stuffy, sweaty nerd lair, Hamza felt the sun on his face for the first time in days. He pushed his hood down, enjoyed the warmth on his shaved scalp. His phone was in his hand and he’d already thumbed to the Uber app without realizing, but he let it slide back into his pocket. He wasn’t exactly sure where he was, but some sort of force larger than his own will was telling him he needed to go for a walk, and he always made a point of listening when the universe sent him signs like that.

It hadn’t been just sex, though, had it. She was always fizzing with something, always talking. Something else to be angry about. Something else that they could do. Somewhere new they could try. Clio had kept moving, at least during the first few years, and when they’d fought, they’d fought high and hard, but he’d been young, and he’d fucking loved it.

Four blocks down and he began to recognize the streets. He broke into a run, people jumping out of his way in alarm as he went. This was meant to be, today.

Homerton, London, 2005