But then it had turned sour. A sleazy man, Vespa helmet under his arm, had brushed past Lydia. Joe had watched, eyes like saucers, as his hand cupped Lydia’s bum, just like that, as though it was his to touch and hold however he liked. Joe was squaring up to him without a second’s hesitation.

A weird kind of pleasure accompanies Joe’s temper, though he’d never admit it to anybody. It’s like popping a champagne cork. He felt complete relief as his shoulders thrust forwards, as his fist connected with the man’s cheek. Just one punch, a pretty light one, a telling-off. Two animals would do the same. The man had invited him outside and Joe, still full of testosterone and that pleasure-pain, had followed. Somewhere in the dimness behind him, a blur of heady-smelling plants and fairy lights puncturing the night, he was aware of Lydia protesting, but that part of him, his sensible brain, wasn’t in charge.

Two Polizia di Stato stood outside, smoking cigarettes and laughing. The man had led Joe to them, shown them the mark on his cheek. Joe had thought they’d brush it off when he explained, but they didn’t. Instead, they squared up to him. Their threats weren’t only physical, not only evident in their large chests, their huge hands. They said they could arrest him easily, their lilting English feeling sinister in the hot night. They offered to take him for a chat. One of them gestured to a nearby alleyway.

Joe had backed away, suddenly frightened. And, that night, the first night of what was supposed to be their relaxing holiday, he had drawn his knees to his chest while Lydia slept, and gritted his teeth at what a dickhead he was. Why couldn’t he have left it? Why could he never take the moral high ground?

What is he going to tell Lydia? She is already still mad at him about that first night, even though it’s been a week and a half since it happened. And now he’s left her sleeping, unknowingly in charge of Paul.

‘Tell me what else to do,’ Frannie says desperately.

Joe tries to slow his breaths. Her voice. His sister’s voice. It does something to him. He used to read to her, she on his lap, when they were both little. A child holding a child. She never wanted to read the same book twice. He made sure they had different ones out of the library each week, their plastic covers sticking to each other in the bag when he unpacked them. Their parents didn’t care, let him get on with it, and he stepped willingly into the patriarchal role.

‘Just let me think,’ Cathy says. She cups her hands around her eyes, like blinkers, her elbows on her knees. ‘Be quiet.’

Joe relaxes into himself for a minute. Cathy will figure it out. He stares at his flip-flops, put on unknowingly not even an hour ago, before this nightmare began. He wiggles his toes. He is here. He is grounded. Breathe in and out. In and out. They will sort it. Nobody will go to prison. A panic attack cannot last forever.