‘Tape player with the microphone. I saw him sticking it in plenty faces.’

I turned to Pat, confused. She nodded, understanding better than I did. ‘Aye, he were a menace with that. I never liked speaking into it. Like having a telephone conversation with yourself.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I said, colouring. ‘What machine?’

‘He had one of those recorders,’ said Pike, and I glimpsed the ruination of his mouth. ‘For recording stories, he said to me. Thoughts and memories. Asked me to say my name into it then played it back to me. I didn’t sound like I thought I would.’

‘I never saw it,’ I said. ‘Why didn’t I see it?’

‘Like you said, he never interviewed you.’

I looked from one to the other. The mulched leaves in my brain had come to a standstill, wedged against the kerb. I needed to push. Needed to make things happen.

‘Never mind the bus,’ I said. ‘I was daft to bother. I’ll leave it.’

Pike shrugged. Put a hand in his pocket and brought out a carton of Player’s Medium. ‘Your John still smoke these?’

I nodded. Took the pack and managed a smile. ‘Give my love to your mam,’ I said, and couldn’t look him in the eye. He nodded. Started trudging away up the road.

‘You really off?’ asked Pat. ‘You’re already soaked.’

‘I was daft. I’ll get home. Start on Fairfax’s place properly,’ I said.

‘Aye, well, if you find owt saucy just bin it off. After you’ve showed me, of course.’

We parted on a shared grin. I walked slowly. Saw one or two faces flicker at windows as I trudged up past the old vicarage and the clumps of Roman wall that stood out from grassy tufts like wrecked ships. Gilsland. The place I grew up and which, on that day, looked like a photographic negative – as though the whites and darks had somehow switched and all the colour had bleached into the soil.

I started running when I reached the Denton road. Didn’t stop until I had reached Fairfax’s place.

I was still panting, still soaked through, an hour later – sitting in an avalanche of paperwork holding the memories of people I had known since the cradle. My head was fizzing with secrets and stories.

Looking back, that’s when I accepted it. That’s when I let myself believe that somebody had killed my friend.

CORDELIA