Glenn was back too. He was another one of the old-timers. He’d always had Thoughts, but after the Boxing Day tsunami they’d got so bad he lost his job and his wife left him. He was in his mid-fifties, and a former pro surfer. He missed the water the most, he said. Glenn could go months without thinking about the beautiful semi he’d owned in Bondi, or the woman who still lived in it, but he itched for the water every single day.

Frannie and Louise were sitting with their heads bent together, looking at something on the back of Frannie’s hand. A skin cancer, probably. Or her manicure, which was such a bright shade of orange I could see it from across the room. Beryl was sitting next to them. She didn’t come very often—at eighty-six, she found it hard to get out of the house at night, especially since she’d broken her hip. Beryl thinking about death as much as she did was probably just being realistic, but she liked us and sometimes she brought biscuits—good ones, not a tray from the supermarket—so no-one was going to ask her to leave.

I made myself a cup of sweet, milky tea and sat down next to Donna. ‘Hey,’ I said.

She gave me a nervous smile and then looked at her hands.

Fiona was scrolling through something on her phone, looking around every now and then to make sure nobody new had come in. When it hit exactly seven thirty, she tucked the phone under her thigh and picked up her clipboard, coughing once, softly. The room went quiet, the football and the manicure disappeared, cups and hands nestling into laps. I blinked, biting the inside of my cheek. Even the light seemed to change. Dim, like during a séance.

‘Hello, everybody. Welcome. It’s good to see you all again.’ She smiled, but it didn’t make her sound any more genuine. ‘I think we all know each other, but let’s go around the room and introduce ourselves anyway. Just your name and something interesting about yourself.’ She motioned to Glenn on her right.

He cleared his throat. ‘I’m Glenn. Hi, everyone. I’m writing a novel about a surfer who gets bitten by a shark.’

I glanced over. That was new, although not altogether unexpected. Glenn made himself feel better about not surfing by studying shark attacks, and he’d started several novels in the time I’d known him. I wondered if he’d finish this one.

‘I’m Carlos. It’s been three weeks since my last confession.’

Carlos said that every week, and every week we all laughed, even though none of us really found it funny.