The roofs of the apartment blocks rushed closer and closer, a forest of aerials and chimneys and water tanks. We skimmed the power lines and the tops of the trees, the airport terminal came into view to our right and there was the bump as the plane touched down, a brace against the forward thrust as it braked, a spasm of relief.

‘Hurrah!’ the man beside me muttered. He grabbed hold of my wrist. ‘We did it!’ he cried. ‘We’re safe!’

He was the lucky one. For him, the anxiety was over. For me, it was just beginning.

3

We disembarked and I experienced my first blast of Sicily: hot and dry, streaky with the smell of aircraft fuel. We were shepherded across the tarmac, buffeted by gusts of displaced air. I managed to position myself behind a family I’d noticed at the departure gate back in London. The boy was about ten, older than Daniel had been when he died, but younger than Daniel would have been if he had still been alive. He was holding his little sister’s hand, pointing things out to her.

Halfway between the plane and the terminal, the girl dropped her toy rabbit and none of the family noticed. I picked it up and quickened my pace to catch up. I tapped the mother’s arm and when she turned, I gave the rabbit to her. She smiled her thanks. I wanted to say something about her son’s gentleness and thoughtfulness, about how he reminded me of Daniel, but it might have come across as a bit weird. Sometimes when I tried to praise the children of strangers, I went over the top and everyone got embarrassed and it didn’t end well. I was glad for that mother that she had such lovely children and it wasn’t that I wanted them for myself, only that I wished Daniel was with me. I would have traded the rest of my life if I could have had him back for a single hour, a minute, a heartbeat. It was a hopeless wish though. All the time in the world wouldn’t be enough to compensate for the time that had already been lost.

We reached the terminal building and walked through sliding doors into the quiet, sanitised chill of a hallway. We shuffled across a marble floor towards the immigration desks. I stood a little apart from everyone else, keeping myself to myself and switched on my phone. Amongst the welcomes from various Italian service providers that lined up over the screensaver of Daniel’s face, was a text from Joe.

I’m at arrivals.

Okay. Fine. Don’t say ‘hello’ or ‘hope you had a good flight’ or ‘looking forward to seeing you again.’ The coldness and brusqueness of the message put me on edge. But what had I expected?