Proof of life, Jax used to call it, so after he died it had been two weeks before I could look at any of those messages. I’d waited until I was sure Norman was asleep so he wouldn’t come across me crying over a mobile phone on the sofa. Snotty and hiccupping, cushion corner pushed into my mouth to dull the racking sobs as I scrolled through endless pictures of Jax, large as life. Large as death.

The messages went back two years, since Jax had managed to convince both his mother and I that two ten-year-old boys absolutely needed mobile phones. They were funny and sassy and some of them might even have been a little too cheeky coming from a kid that age to his best mate’s mum. But that was the thing about Jax. No matter how bold or rude he was, we forgave him anything, me and Norman. Because he was like that little bit of you that you were always too afraid to let out. The part you push back down your throat and put a hand over your mouth so it doesn’t escape by accident.

But you can bet Jaxy never put a hand over his own mouth. Not for anything or anyone. He was all the fun and free and naughty parts of life. He was life. That kid wasn’t afraid of anything and oh, how we loved him for it. Because me and Norman were afraid of almost everything.

According to the spreadsheet timetable, I was to contact Adam Linley just before we left Swansea to give him a heads-up on the possible existence of a bombshell in the form of a boy coming his way. I’d managed to conveniently put it off, what with all the excitement of the Duke Supper Club news, but it looked like there were no further distractions to be had. So, with Leonard humming along to a radio jingle for Wetherspoons and Norman mouthing his lines or a cry for help, I clicked on my contacts and headed into the A’s. Just as I tapped on Adam’s name the car hit a pothole and my fingers bounced on the keypad. Once the car stopped shuddering, I started to compose a sensitive but compelling text to another man I hadn’t seen for thirteen years. That’s what I was aiming for anyhow.

Hi Adam. Sadie Foreman here. I’m not sure if you remember me, as it’s been a long time and we didn’t really know each other that well, but I met you at university in Edinburgh back in the day. Was there a protocol for the length of this kind of text? Just what depth of background does one offer? Does one say, Oh and also we shagged, but just the once and if I can barely remember it I guess I can’t really expect you to. I decided it might be best if I went for a more subtle approach.

I discovered that you live in Bournemouth and I’m passing through with my son on our way to the Edinburgh Fringe so I wondered if you’d have time for a quick catch-up. I know it might seem strange, but my son would like to meet you. There is a bit of a possibility that you could be his biological father. Okay, not so subtle then. Please don’t worry, he would simply like to meet you, that’s all—no strings attached. I understand the sensitivity of the issue and possibly the need for discretion, which I assure you I can guarantee. We don’t want anything from you, but Norman has recently lost his best friend in tragic circumstances and the opportunity to meet you might settle some questions and give him some comfort. I appreciate this will come as a bit of a shock out of the blue like this after so long, but we are only in Bournemouth for one night so I hope you will consider meeting us. We’ll be at O’Neills on Old Christchurch Rd at 7pm tonight. I hope to see you there. Bollocks I do and PS: how about you bring my toasted sandwich maker? Many thanks and kind regards, Sadie Foreman.