The guard had clocked off at six—what was the point, anyway, if he’s not there at night—so Andre used the remote to let them through the gate. He drove in and parked out the front of Sly’s, and Lou said, ‘Finally. Man, I gotta lie down.’

He’d been acting like a bitch the whole way, eyes shut and making little moaning noises as if he was dying. Andre told him he should have gone to an actual clinic, rather than a de-licensed dermatologist who couldn’t actually prescribe anything, let alone give him an X-ray. But whatever.

He’d been here a few times but hadn’t done a full tour yet. One wing had the kitchen and living room, and the other held the bedrooms. Lots of polished concrete and floor-to-ceiling glass. Colourful paintings that kind of looked like naked women if you blurred your vision. He’d bet limbs Sly thought they were shit—Beth would have chosen everything. It was funny, really: the way Sly thought he was a force to be reckoned with but couldn’t even pick his own art, even though Beth was in a wheelchair half the time—not exactly a tough contender. She had some kind of cancer—lymphoma, maybe—according to Delroy. He reckoned she only had eighteen months left to run.

No sign of her now, though. Or Delroy, or Sly Junior. Delroy had said something about Beth having an appointment in LA, so maybe they’d left already.

He took an apple from the fruit bowl on the counter and ate it as he wandered the house. Sly’s room looked like a grenade had gone off in a cupboard. Clothes everywhere, all the drawers open, items hanging out. Beth’s side table was a Manhattan of pill containers. He checked out Sly’s: a phone and an iPad and a stack of Playboys. One of those little program booklets you get at a funeral: person’s doctored photo on the front, and then all the song lyrics inside. Christ, this was a thick one, must’ve gone on for days.

He went through to Sly Junior’s room, one door along. Lou was on the bed, ice pack across his bandaged nose and flipping through channels on the TV. The dog was on the floor next to him, jaw on the ground and looking up from under its brow, seeming embarrassed about the whole situation.

Lou said, ‘What?’

Andre didn’t answer. He cracked off another bite. He was confident the de-licensed dermatologist hadn’t done a great job setting Lou’s nose, but why say anything? They would just have to waste time at the hospital.

Lou again: ‘Can I help you?’

‘No. Just looking.’