I push those as far to the back of my mind as I can. That way madness lies.

I go back to hovering. Waiting. Ignoring any phone call that isn’t from the police or the undertaker. Ignoring text messages asking what the arrangements are.

People are talking.

Gossip spreading.

There’s nothing we can do to control it.

I think about the postmortem. Try to imagine at what stage in the macabre proceedings things may be at now. Marie has gone to Belfast. None of us could face it. A friend has driven her because she is much too distraught to have driven herself. I have long suspected she still harboured some feelings for her ex-husband. God knows why.

When she’d heard none of us were planning to go to Belfast, she’d insisted on going, determined that Joe should not make the journey alone – as if he hasn’t gone way past being able to care. ‘He deserves to have his family with him,’ she had said. There was no hint of judgement in her voice – just sadness.

They’ll definitely be in Belfast now. This could be the moment that first incision is made. A straight line, diagonal, under his collarbone. Like you see on TV. Is it like it is in the movies? Solemn and respectful. Or is it all in a day’s work? Another body on a slab to be carved and dissected. Another set of lungs to examine. Mottled skin to be sliced, blood and tissue removed and tested.

Thinking about it is making me sick. My stomach gurgles. I don’t know if I need to eat something or throw up. Perhaps a lungful of air will help.

I make a cup of milky tea, which I’m not sure I can stomach, and walk around the frost-covered back garden. In the dusk the frost sparkles, a reflection of the glow of the lights on in the kitchen. I try to focus on that while I wish I hadn’t given up smoking when I was pregnant with Lily. A cigarette would be perfect just now.

I hear footsteps and turn. Alex is at the door, his own cup in his hand. It will be a black coffee. Extra strong. He drinks too much caffeine, I think in passing. Wondering how fast it makes his heart beat. Would they be able to see his addiction if they carved out his heart in a postmortem and examined it?

‘How’re you holding up?’ he asks, putting two cushions on the patio chairs so that we can sit down more comfortably.

I pull a face. One I hope conveys that I don’t have the first notion in the world how I’m holding up.

‘It’s scary,’ he says. ‘That they think someone might’ve hurt him.’

I nod.

‘He wasn’t a very good man, was he?’ Alex asks.

I look at him and he is staring at the grass. He needs a shave and a decent sleep. Probably something to eat.

‘No, he wasn’t,’ I say. ‘He wasn’t what people think he was.’