‘But we’re not going to waste any more of it, are we?’ calls Dad.

‘No, Pops, we’re not!’ I keep walking: the next two archways, the next two thresholds. I walk in the dark and in the cold water, blackness all around me. I mustn’t panic. Dad has been all over London now. He has been afraid, at times; he has faltered – but he’s done it anyway. I mustn’t panic, for Kemp. I can do this, for Kemp.

‘You can do this!’ Dad’s shout is fainter now, but I let his words echo in my brain as I walk until I begin to believe them. I can do this, I can do this, I can do this. The drip drip of water ahead of me is again a ticking clock; the beating of my heart gives me a rhythm to walk to. Step. Step. Step. Step. I’m at arch number six, the water not so cold, the way ahead still daunting. ‘This is quite the role reversal,’ Dad calls. ‘Me guiding you!’

‘You have always guided me, Dad! I should have listened to you more!’

‘Well, I wasn’t going to say anything …’

I laugh a small laugh, walking in the cool dark of the womb of this beautiful underground vault, and listen as my laugh, a little alien-sounding down here – a little fragile – rebounds off its bricks and its shallows. Dad was right about Salvi. He was indeed nothing but a distraction. He was a man who had me looking in all the wrong places. The feelings he gave me weren’t real. Nothing about him was real. The way he looked at me in the fairground – however cruel that was – was actually nothing to do with me. It showed me exactly who he was all along – that the truly ugly have blights and abrasions and stains that run so much deeper, and are so much more hideous, than any surface imperfections. All I had to do was open my eyes. Oh, Kemp, I think. Oh, Kemp …

‘I’ve got this!’ I yell, a little unconvincingly. ‘I can do this, Dad!’

‘You’re strong!’ calls out Dad, more echo but less decibels to his voice, now. I’m at arch seven. ‘You’re so much stronger than you realize.’

Am I? Can ‘strong’ be a word for me? I’ve always thought it the preserve of the women I read about, not for me, but I think about the past few weeks. Where I’ve been. What I’ve seen of the world and what I’ve learnt from it. I’ve loved walking round London with my father, this summer, I realize. I was reluctant, I fought against it, but in the end I really loved it. I’ve grown to know Dad again. We’ve talked – actually, properly talked. We’ve shared our secrets – finally. Has it made me strong? Has it made me strong enough to do this?