Paul reached out and tweaked the rabbit’s ear. ‘I bet it’s not really Kirsty’s. I bet you’ve had it since you were four and it’s called something like Mr Bun-Bun, and apart from Kirsty it’s the love of your life.’

‘No Paul – you’re the other love of my life.’

Paul lifted a red plastic crate out of the van. It was full of seven-inch singles. He took out a handful and studied them. ‘Fuck, how old are these? Madness, The Specials. Did you inherit these off your grandad?’

‘Those are classics.’

Paul rolled his eyes. ‘You’re a hoarder, mate. You’ll probably end up like one of those old blokes who can’t bear to throw anything away, living in a flat surrounded by yellow newspapers and empty baked bean tins. Kirsty will have got fed up with you and run off with a bloke who’s into Japanese minimalism. ‘

‘Has today suddenly turned into Slag Off Jamie day?’

‘I’m only teasing. Come on, we’d better get the rest of this stuff into the flat.’

Paul went to pick up the box containing the tennis racquet and some folders full of training notes from when Jamie joined ETN, but Jamie stopped him.

‘Leave it.’

‘Eh?’

‘I saw a skip on the way here. When we’ve unloaded the rest of the gear we’ll take this junk there and dump it.’

Paul raised his eyebrows.

‘And before you ask, yes I am sure.’

They picked up a crate of records each and began the process of transferring the favoured boxes and binbags into the flat. The sun beat down on them and they sweated their T-shirts a darker shade.

‘Almost finished,’ Jamie said, a while later. ‘Just the chest of drawers.’

It was an old chest of drawers that Jamie had bought at an antiques auction. It was made of dark, heavy oak, and Jamie grunted a little as he and Paul lifted it. Paul, who was marginally stronger, went backwards up the path, holding his end up firmly but not being able to see where he was going. Just before Paul reached the front door, Jamie started to say, ‘Look out,’ but it was too late. A woman had come up the concrete steps from the basement flat, and as she reached the path – not really looking where she was going – Paul bumped into her, dropping the chest of drawers and swearing loudly.

The woman stared at him for a second, her expression grim – and then she smiled. Jamie would never forget that sudden change in expression. He had never seen anything like it – not in real life anyway. It was more suited to a cartoon. She smiled, her face relaxed, her brow uncreased. Jamie stared at her for a second, wondering how she had transformed her features from Gorgon to Angel so quickly, then he remembered how to speak.