“Hi, guys.” The sound of Isaac’s voice startles me. “Thanks for gathering here so promptly. As you will have noticed, Gabe is back.” He gestures to the man at his feet.

Several people shout hello and wave, but Isaac silences them with a shake of his head.

“But there’s bad news about Ruth. Terrible news …” His voice cracks and he closes his eyes. When he opens them again, tears spill onto his cheeks. He makes no attempt to wipe them away and a low murmur fills the room. “A group of men in balaclavas tried to rob Gabe and Ruth on their way back up the mountain, and, when Ruth objected, one of the men shoved her out of the way and she fell and hit her head. The men took off with the donkey and the provisions, and Gabe tended to Ruth, but … there was nothing he could do. Ruth died before he could get her back to Ekanta Yatra.”

There is a collective gasp followed by a crescendo of noise. Sally, sitting in the middle of the room beside Raj, clutches hold of him and buries her head in his chest. The only person in the room who doesn’t react to the news is Gabe. He keeps his head down, his hands clasped in his lap.

Isaac holds up his hands and the roar dims to a dull murmur. “We’re going to hold a memorial celebration for her on Wednesday night. Anyone wishing to attend should meet on the banks of the river at ten p.m. If you’d like to help collect wood and build the pyre you should meet us there this afternoon at three.”

“You’re going to cremate her?” I’m on my feet and the words are out of my mouth before I can stop them. “Here?”

Isaac nods.

“Without telling her family that she’s dead?”

“We are Ruth’s family, Emma.”

“You know what I mean. Her proper family. Her parents, sisters, brothers.”

“We are her sisters and brothers,” calls out Isis from the corner of the room.

“It’s what she would have wanted,” shouts someone else.

Voices ring out, one after another, after another:

“She loved Ekanta Yatra.”

“This place was her life.”

“Ruth belongs here.”

All eyes are on me and suddenly I feel suffocated, as though the oxygen has been sucked from the room. I glance at Daisy for help but she looks away. Al won’t meet my gaze, either. She’s folded over herself, her face pressed into her knees, her hands gripping her calves. She can’t deal with talk about death – not Tommy’s, not anyone else’s. She left the pub once when Daisy asked us what songs we’d want played at our funerals and then started drunkenly ranting about how it was up to us to make sure her arsehole of a dad shouldn’t be invited to her funeral.