I climb over the low wall. I drop to a crawl, reach out with my left arm. My hand lands on what I think is Kemp’s thigh. I pat up his body until I get to his chest. It is softly rising and falling. I feel for the side of Kemp’s head – his temple – and my hand comes away wet. I hope it’s water, but the thought it might not be fills me with horror. My hand moves to his cheek – it is warm – and down to his neck, where I can feel his pulse, steady but weak – is it weak? I don’t know. Perhaps I should have checked that first, but I have no idea what I’m doing. I try his wrist, under those leather bracelets. The pulse feels the same. I lean forward and put my face near his cheek and he smells just like he always did, when I was lucky enough to accidentally get that close – like a little piece of heaven.

I try not to think that I love him, I love him. I have always loved him.

‘Kemp,’ I say, ‘you’re going to be all right.’

He moans a little but I shush him, stroke his forehead with my hand.

‘I’m sorry, Bertie,’ he whispers.

‘Don’t be sorry,’ I say. ‘And don’t try to talk now. You can talk when you get out.’

‘Thanks for coming,’ he says, his voice hoarse, and I want to laugh but I also want to cry, to lay my head on his warm chest and cry and cry because I could be too late, this could all be too late. For him. The boy in the darkroom. The boy with the smile who danced on his own. The boy who always had a plan. Instead I say, ‘You idiot.’ But I am the idiot – a giant, selfish, stupid one; an idiot who couldn’t listen, out on the street, in bright sunlight. I place my palm on his cheek for a second. Then I move my mouth to his ear and I say, ‘You better be all right, Kemp. You better be bloody well all right.’

Don’t you dare cry, I tell myself, as I rise away from him and feel my way back to the low brick wall and climb over it. Don’t you dare bloody cry!

I’m in the pool of water again. I step forward, but I stumble on something: an uneven brick underneath my feet? A slippery patch? I don’t know. But I go flying, face forwards, and land on my hands and knees in the water.

‘Oof!’ I scramble up.

‘Are you all right?’ calls Dad.

‘Yes, I fell. I’m OK. But Kemp’s hurt. I need to go and get help.’