God, they were both like children. ‘I want us to be together,’ he said. ‘Do you?’

She paused for a long moment. When she said it there was no happiness in her voice. ‘Yeah.’

‘So we keep telling each other it’s okay.’

‘Okay.’

‘And tomorrow we talk about—’

‘We’ll talk about everything.’

They slept.

*   *   *

In the early hours, Costain woke from dreams of being closely investigated, explored even. He got up to go to the toilet, and he walked over the pile of her clothes, the underwear that couldn’t have been her usual choice, which she must have worn for him, and there was the waistcoat which had, in its pocket, that piece of paper with the address where the item that could keep him out of Hell was located.

She had left it there. She wouldn’t have done that offhandedly. She had decided to leave it there. She had stirred as he’d got up and she was probably awake now. Watching him to see what he’d do. He had to prove himself.

He stepped on over the waistcoat, went to the bathroom, came back.

She was looking at him, sitting up, entirely awake. ‘You didn’t look at the piece of paper.’

‘No.’ He went to sit beside her on the bed. She lay against him once more. He looked at her. He could see that frown on her face in the darkness. He’d always found how solemn she looked kind of horny, now he thought of it. That seriousness had indeed extended to how passionate, how committed, she’d been. But the idea that she would now be like that all the time … the hurt she’d done herself felt enormous. That was the biggest reason he wouldn’t look at the address: the high price she’d paid for it to be hers.

‘I’m never going to be happy,’ she said, as if reading his thoughts. ‘I’m satisfied. Calm. Peaceful. But not happy. It turns out that happy is an active sort of thing.’

‘Would even getting your dad out of Hell make you happy now?’

She shook her head.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I tried to stop you.’

‘You shouldn’t have. I don’t regret it.’

‘Okay,’ he said.

They were silent for a few moments. ‘Go and get the piece of paper,’ she said.

‘No.’

‘You have to. We need to trust each other.’

He hesitated. Then he went over to her waistcoat and came back with the paper. She switched on the bedside light.

They looked at the address together: 16 Leyton Gardens. It seemed a small thing to base such trust on. He looked at her face and saw the intensity of her expression still. ‘Thank you,’ he said.