Josh fiddles with his Bluetooth speaker and Simple Minds sing ‘Don’t you forget about me’. The mood lifts as, just for the next few hours, the mourners shake off their grief by tapping their feet while they queue for the buffet and just like that, this becomes a celebration of Adam’s life. He’d appreciate music and laughter more than he would tissues and tears.

‘You need to eat, Anna,’ Nell says.

‘I will. Soon.’ I can’t focus on anything except the fragments of the address Adam left on the pad, which are swirling around my mind like leaves in the wind. I can’t seem to catch them and rearrange them in the right order. The knowing that it must have been important causes my temples to throb.

I slip outside into the beer garden for some fresh air, craving silence and peace but not yet ready to go home and be alone. Clouds are gathering in the sky. The light’s fading and the day has lost its warmth. A patio heater glows red and I slide onto a wooden bench. An ashtray piled with cigarette stubs is before me and I inhale deeply, welcoming the hit of tar in my lungs. I’ve never smoked but I’m tempted to start.

What was the address?

I close my eyes, travelling back to that day, back to the apartment, but all I can see is the note telling me to go to the beach. All I can feel is my panic building. The bunting. The yacht. The barbecue. The smell of sausages and burgers will always take me back to that time. Still, I can hear the music. My own anguished voice screaming for Adam to get off the yacht.

To stay.

I rub my eyes, desperate to replace the image with something else. Harry springs to mind, as he often does. As painful as it is, I push him away too.

Think.

The apartment was empty. Before I saw the note on the fridge, I had looked at the notepad.

I know I read the address. I know the answer is nestled within my consciousness somewhere. More than anyone, I understand how powerful the mind can be.

I take a deep breath. Clench and unclench my fists, my jaw. Slide my shoulders from their tense position near my ears to where they should naturally sit.

Relax.

The first spots of rain hit but I don’t move. Instead I feel them on my skin, the wetness, the temperature.

Relax.

Upper Harringdon.

The words spring from nowhere, but now they are here, I remember wondering why Adam had written down the name of a town about thirty minutes from where we live. There was more, I know. Something about a saint. St Jude? St Agnes. St Mary! St Mary Street or Road or something. I feel a prickle of excitement. I try not to force another memory. The rain pelting harder now.

62.