Then why did she tell me? she thought, angrily. Why did she tell me at all? And it occurred to her that maybe, as far as June was concerned, she’d done her part. Who was to say she’d not already given her permission as she understood it? Maybe she thought Claire was pestering her to append her name to the piece, or to identify the man. Maybe she wanted Claire to go and write the damn thing regardless, with minimal contact, so that June could later deny responsibility for it, like a real confidential informant. She had told Claire, after all. She must have known what Claire was doing.

For a moment it seemed to Claire that she, herself, might even be part of the problem. It was a thought she did not enjoy: it seemed almost to encroach upon her space, like someone unwanted, a drunk, sitting beside you on a train. She left the Coke on the counter and went back to her room. The only way out was to jump, the way June had jumped in telling Claire the truth. Then they would be standing on the other side of the decision, and things would look different there. She just had to send the email – so she did.

She had a long shower that stayed hot all the way through, that beat her skin till it pinked and glowed. Journalists shouldn’t expect to be liked. Duncan had told her that. Back in her room, she texted him: Drink? The building was terribly quiet, and she dived on her phone when it rang.

‘Claire, it’s Ben! Is this real?’ He was shouting against a hundred voices that seemed to be ramming themselves down the phone. He was where life was. That was the sound of life. ‘It’s fucking amazing. Are you around? We’re at the Union. Can you come down?’