The gallery is a hive of activity with students hanging artwork on the walls and arranging ceramics; craning their heads this way and that to check that the paintings and photographs are straight and altering the positions of sculptures by half-inch turns. As I walk through the gallery, scanning faces in search of Kira, a couple of students turn to look at me but no one stops me to ask who I am or what I’m doing there. I pass by several photography exhibits, pausing by one of pregnant women dressed in different uniforms and outfits. There’s a pregnant policewoman, a pregnant fisherwoman, a pregnant clown. I smile at the photograph of the pregnant chef, her whites gaping over her belly as though she’s eaten one too many of the pastries stacked up beside her. Next to her is a pregnant stripper. That makes me feel sad.

I hurry on. Kira told Liz that her project was about tattoos and regrets.

I’ve nearly reached the far end of the cavernous room when I finally spot Kira’s small patch of wall. There are hooks for lots of canvases but she’s only hung six. Each one is a close-up of a tattoo with a small white card mounted on wood underneath.

The first canvas I look at is of a Nazi symbol on a man’s forearm. On the card underneath it says:

My mate did this tattoo for me with a compass and some ink when we were fifteen. I thought it was cool. I didn’t even really know what it stood for, just that it pissed off old people. I’m sixteen now and I’m saving to get it covered up. I wear a lot of long-sleeved T-shirts.

The second canvas shows the name Nadia tattooed under a rose.

Nadia was my first wife, says the description on the card. We were together for twenty years. I thought we’d be together for ever but I cheated on her and we split up. My new girlfriend hates it. She keeps telling me to get it covered up and get her name instead but I won’t be making the same mistake twice.

The third canvas shows a clenched fist with a triangle, a circle, a cross and a square tattooed onto the figures.

When I got this tattoo done I loved my PlayStation more than anything else in the world, says the card. Now I feel like a bit of a dick.

As I move towards the fourth canvas I sense someone behind me and turn around. It’s a young bloke with a piercing through his nose and dark hair cut into a teddy-boy style.

‘All right?’ He gives me a curt nod.

‘I’m Claire. Kira lives with my son Jake.’

‘Mason.’ He holds out a slender hand. ‘I’m Kira’s tutor.’

‘Nice to meet you. I don’t suppose you know where she is, do you?’