She shook her head. She told me the story in broken fragments. Because it made no sense and yet at the same time it was all horribly easy to imagine.

‘Just the usual teenage rubbish,’ she said. ‘It started with a lie – Just told me he was going to play video games at his friend’s house. I believed him. And his friend told his mother the same lie. And instead they sneaked off to this place. To have a few drinks. To pretend that they’re not children any more. It’s what teenagers do, Max. Some boys out – Just and a couple of his friends from school – nice kids – they were in some little pub off the Holloway Road – then suddenly these other boys were shouting at Just – that he had looked at a girl – but his friend – I spoke to his friend – his friend sat in the hospital all night long, too scared to go home – he said that Just didn’t do anything – he didn’t even see this girl – but they – one of them – this gang – the Dog Town Boys, they call themselves – they put a bottle across his face – and it broke – the glass – and his eyes . . .

I took her hands in mine.

She needed to say no more. It was the kind of ordinary madness that happened every night of the year. But it usually happened to someone else.

‘We’re such a small family, Max. Me and Just. You don’t realise it until a time like this. I feel like I should call someone. But who can I call? My parents are dead. I don’t have brothers or sisters. There’s no one to call, is there?’

‘What about his father?’ I said, and when I saw her face twist with anger I knew immediately it was the wrong thing to say.

‘He’s dead to us,’ she said. ‘He left us to get on with it. And we will get on with it. Even this.’

Then we were silent until a doctor appeared in the doorway. A thirty-something Asian in blue scrubs, in a rush. He looked around the waiting room.

‘Miss . . . Whitehead?’

‘Whitestone,’ she said, standing up. ‘Where’s the other doctor? Dr Patel?’

‘Dr Patel’s shift ended. I’m Dr Khan. I’ve just come out of surgery with your son, Jason.’

‘His name is Justin.’

‘Exactly.’ He looked at her, his face a mask, and my stomach fell away. ‘It’s not good news, I’m afraid,’ he said, consulting his notes. ‘We managed to remove the fragments of glass from your son’s left iris and its supporting tissue but unfortunately the optic nerve has been detached from the back of the eye . . .’

He looked at her, nervously licked his lips, waiting for her to fill in the terrible blank.

But she said nothing.

‘What does that mean, Doctor?’ I said.