‘I love shuffle!’ he shouted.

The terrace lights shone harshly onto the remnants in the garden; the puddle of paint on the grass, the various projects begun and abandoned, lying around like some kind of installation. Bea began collecting things and putting them in piles on the garden tables and dining-room sideboard.

‘What a night,’ Alex shouted over the music. ‘So mild!’

He put the speaker down, and stood shoving ham into his mouth.

‘It’s too fucking ugly out here,’ he said. ‘Fucking wall lights. Wait.’ He drained his whisky and disappeared inside.

‘Bea?’ said Dan. Feeling miles and miles apart, they smiled at one another. ‘It’s all right, babe.’

Alex came back, triumphantly holding up a storm lamp with paraffin sloshing in the base.

‘Ahoy,’ he said.

He flicked the switch inside the dining room and plunged them into darkness. They saw him silhouetted as the music jumped – and dropped – suddenly, to slow and simple; an acoustic guitar and a harmonica, as clear as a funeral bell on a silent day.

‘See?’ said Alex. ‘See how it changes?’

He put the lamp down.

‘I’ll do it,’ said Bea.

She opened it up and found the wick, and adjusted it, and Alex lit it with his Zippo through the tiny gap, burning his thumb. The flame leapt hugely, showing spiderwebs on the dusty glass. He turned it down and the glow was a comfort. The music went on, Johnny Cash and Jeff Buckley; the pain of the cracked old voice, then the pain of the young one. Alex lit a cigarette with shaking hands, spilling them from the box onto the grass. He bent and offered one to Dan.

‘What a fucking mess. I know I’m being an arsehole. I’m really, really sorry.’

Dan took the cigarette. Alex poured another whisky, and held it against his chest.

‘What am I doing?’ he said.

Bea leaned into the lantern’s glow. ‘I think you’re doing OK.’

Alex yelped, like an animal. ‘I’m doing brilliantly.’

With Alex quieter, Bea and Dan took their chance to eat, feeling for ham and bread, digging into the butter, cutting the cheese, fuelling themselves. Alex turned to Dan, struggling to focus.

‘You wouldn’t take money from a man like my father, would you?’ He was ghoulish, pale, glistening with a sheen of sweat.

Dan stopped chewing.

‘You’re not a total cunt,’ said Alex. ‘I take a salary. Money. To suck on the giant tit. You wouldn’t do that, would you?’

Dan shrugged, at a loss, but Alex had forgotten him. He put his arms around Bea, restricting her.

‘See? Dan?’ he said. ‘This girl …’

Bea took his hands off her and held them, steadying him. ‘It’s all right,’ she said.

‘She looks into my soul,’ said Alex. ‘Does she look into yours? She’s a guiding light. Port in a storm. All that.’

He let go of Bea’s hands, drained his glass and weaving, staggered off. His cigarette fell and rolled onto the ground. Dan stamped it out.