I felt the exhaustion settling on me like snow. My clothes all felt too heavy and my legs suddenly didn’t have the strength to hold me up any more. I had to steady myself against the wall, sploshing the hot coffee on my hand and cursing like the devil. John was on his knees facing the door, looking like he was about to start a hundred-yard dash. I think I may have started laughing. It all just seemed a bit farcical. I don’t like new things. I’m not one who craves exciting experiences or a change from the old routine. I’m happy with my own four walls. I’m never more content than sitting on the edge of the bathtub waiting for it to fill up. I couldn’t find my temper, though God and John know I’ve got one. I was just bone-weary. Tearful, I suppose, though it was more a case of my eyes leaking tears than giving in to that snotty sobbing you see on the telly.

‘You hear that?’

‘The arguing?’ I asked. ‘Aye, somebody’s in a lather.’

‘I couldn’t work out who was saying what,’ grunted John, pulling himself up and taking the coffee cup from my hand. He took a sip. Grimaced, and took another.

‘The man with the gun seemed to have his dander up. I recognized the voice.’

‘Was it the other who gave me a thump?’

‘I don’t think so,’ I said, trying to untangle the different strands of recent memory. ‘God only knows how many people are in the house.’

John leaned himself against the wall, his arm against mine. Pelletier had left a packet of cigarettes and a box of matches next to the flask; an unremarked courtesy that marked him out as less of a so-and-so than his mates. John took one from the packet and lit up. He pulled a face.

‘American,’ he said. ‘Haven’t had one of these since the war.’

‘Our James got you that crate for your birthday,’ I said. ‘Him and Heron …’

I tailed off. The wounds were still too painful. Grief’s a scab. You only know the wound is still raw when you start to play with the edges.

‘They’re still at it,’ said John, cocking his ear. There were crashes and bangs and angry shouts drifting in from outside.

‘I hope that Sera’s OK,’ I said, fretfully. ‘She was proper lovely. Proper Florence Nightingale, that one. She and her brother are supposed to be telling their life stories to some important person. That’s why they’re here. I think they’ve been through a lot.’

‘Guatemala?’ asked John, testing the word. ‘We watched that documentary, don’t you remember.’

‘On Guatemala? I’ve never watched a documentary on Guatemala.’

He looked at me like I was soft in the head. ‘No, on Belize.’

‘John Goose, we are not talking about blasted Belize!’