She thought about going back to bed but knew she wouldn’t sleep. Instead, she fetched the little rubber ice-cube tray from the minibar and walked outside into the cold night. It was freezing. She hurried to Fisher’s door and knocked. There was no answer, so she knocked again. Finally, his face appeared in the window beside the door. His bloodshot eyes wandered down to Kate’s feet and back to her face again. He looked drunk, and baleful.

He disappeared from the window and, after fifteen seconds of shuffling and rustling around in his room, answered the door. ‘Kate, what is it? Has something happened? Is everything alright?’

‘I have ice,’ she said.

‘Excuse me?’

‘I saw you struggling with the machine and thought you might need some.’

She handed him the rubber ice tray.

‘Oh, uh, thanks,’ he said. ‘I’m just having a little nightcap. Helps me sleep.’

‘Mind if I join you?’ she asked.

‘Oh,’ He furrowed his brow and glanced back into his room. ‘Sure. Come in.’

Fisher’s room was a mirrored version of her own. There was an empty bottle of Chivas Regal on the desk and a freshly opened one beside it. He fixed them both a glass, adding a few blocks of Kate’s ice to each.

‘I hope straight is okay,’ he said, handing her a glass. ‘I don’t have any mixers.’

‘That’s fine.’

She sat down on the bed and sipped the Scotch. It stung on the way down but instantly warmed her belly. She usually couldn’t handle spirits, but sipping her Chivas was like slipping into a warm bath – a little too hot at first, but soon it felt just right. For a long time, they didn’t talk. Kate worried that Fisher might prefer to be alone, but when they finished their drinks, he quickly made two more.

‘It didn’t look like him,’ Fisher said softly, letting the ice clink in his glass. ‘I mean, it looked like him, but not quite right’.

‘Like seeing him through a camera lens,’ she offered.

He nodded. He took a cigarette from the pack, placed it between his lips and asked, ‘Do you mind?’

‘I think the rooms have smoke detectors.’

‘I found a workaround.’ He stood, swayed forward, caught his balance, then went and opened the window. If Fisher was cold, he didn’t show it. He dragged a chair to the window, sat down and smoked.

‘You never met my father, did you?’ he asked.

‘No.’

John’s grandfather was five years dead when they met. Emphysema, if memory served.

‘He was a tough old bastard,’ Fisher said. ‘An arsehole, really. You’re not meant to speak ill of the dead. You’re supposed to say he called it as he saw it, he was a straight shooter, he wouldn’t tolerate fools. But what all that boils down to is being an arsehole.’