My family moved from Paris back to Bristol when I was two, but I have no memory of this. The idea was to give me English schooling, which Frankie considered a vital academic stepping-stone to an autonomous life. The Old Man thought it was a load of crap. Then, when Bristol’s work opportunities dried up, we moved to London. The marriage dissolved a year later. But it was rotten and badly formed from the start (obviously). The Old Man living in the closet, that didn’t help. Plus, Frankie’s affairs. I was ten. My world had been perfect: the River Severn, the smallness of Bristol, trips to Wales and Cornwall. When I was thrown into the Big Smoke, I sank. Until Bea arrived.

She moved down to London from Northumberland and was full of edges and stubbornness and we looked at each other on her first day in class and we clicked.

Then her father died. As quick as a sentence, he was gone. Afterwards came the disbelief. Then the struggle to make sense of it. And, while Bea and Mrs. G argue about most things, they agreed when it came to the sudden loss of Avi Gold. He had deserted them. Their way of making sense of it—blaming him. I didn’t judge.

Bea and I bonded over hurt and books and film, anything to sweep away reality. We conspired against all things messed-up, corrupt and wrong in the world.

We were outsiders, on the outside of every side.

We were best friends.

—

“Look,” Bea says now. “Maybe you’re not meant to be anyone. Maybe you’re just, you know, meant to be. Live in the now and all that.”

“Maybe,” I say. “But sometimes I wish I could just flick a switch and make everything go back to the way it was before. Back to normal.”

Bea pulls a face and drags her hair across her forehead, then she bends the stick between her thumbs until it snaps.

“I read the craziest thing online the other day,” she says, flinging the remnants into the scrub. “Imagine this. You’re standing in a room with a baby.” She glances at me from under that dark shank of hair. “Same age as your brother.”

“Half brother."

“And this baby, you know for a fact, is Adolf Hitler.”

“What?”

“At least, he’ll grow into Adolf Hitler. Now, what if I told you there was no comeback if you killed the baby? No repercussions. You wouldn’t be tried and you wouldn’t go to jail. So, the question is this: Would you do it? Would you kill Hitler?”

“Are you taking the piss? Would I kill Hitler?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s hypothetical. It can’t happen. It’s a paradox.”

“Clearly it’s hypothetical. But humour me. The baby, we can take as a given, is Hitler. He will go on to murder millions of people. My people.”

“It doesn’t make any sense.”