As the lift doors slid open, they revealed a well-lit and carpeted internal corridor. It was so calm, so quiet. Such a reassuring sort of space – was that the intention? All the corridors in the birthing centre were internal, so that all of the rooms could be flooded with natural light. Cris and the director had already stepped out of the lift and he followed them, turning right as they did. They were heading for the room with the closed door up ahead. There were no other doors in sight.

Along one side of the corridor they were passing framed, crayoned children’s drawings, each one mounted as though it was a work of art. Or perhaps they were works of art. They were lovely, he thought, with a sharp twist of loss, but he didn’t look at them for long. On the other side of the corridor a fish tank was set into the wall, emanating a fluorescent blue glow and housing intricate pieces of orange and red coral. Among them, striped purple-and-white tropical fish darted gracefully.

The director was holding a key card in her hand. She was of average height. Kind of nondescript hair. Clearly, she wasn’t going to give anything away – she was too controlled for that. When he looked at her clothes, he found that he had instantly forgotten what she was wearing. Perhaps she didn’t want to stand out. He was a little nondescript himself, he thought, except when he was dancing, when he was creating movement. He wondered what it was that would make the director stand out. She opened the door and held it wide, with a gentle smile, for Cris and Karl to step inside.

Oh, he gasped, the glass. On three walls of the room were floor-to-ceiling panels of glass looking out over central London. His first thought was of the smashed glass downstairs but the light here was softened, the glare was gone. He could open his eyes fully, he could see St Paul’s, the Thames, curved and glittered, Tower Bridge. The Globe, over the river. He found himself approaching the window, staring out, following streets and paths between low red-brick houses, bare-branched trees decorated with light.

‘Have a seat, when you’re ready,’ the director was saying. Cris was sitting down already – the view didn’t seem to have affected him in the same way. But then he wasn’t the one who’d just driven a car into a glass building. ‘Have some herbal tea,’ the director said, standing beside him now. ‘Camomile, perhaps? Or green tea?’