I don’t regret what I did, not when I’m angry. It was the only thing I could do to get their attention. It was in bad taste and led to the end of my short new career. But it was that moment. You have to understand the context. I thought I had more to lose by being decent than by being awful. I was wrong, but it felt good then.

And of course I wish I hadn’t done it. Of course! I’m not stupid.

‘I know that,’ you say. ‘See you next week?’

‘Yes, thanks. Unless you fancy a drink later?’

You look up at me, startled for a second then weary. ‘See you next week,’ you say. ‘We still have work to do.’

*

On the last weekend before Mum’s house was sold, Amy and I walked down to the beach together at sunset. The wind was up high, rustling the scrub grass and blowing new shapes out of the sand that had escaped onto the promenade. Grit scoured our cheeks, and it was about to rain; pink burned over the top of some thinner clouds and opened a gap; sunlight skimmed across the water and set alight the windows of the grand terraces that faced the sea. It was here a year ago that we had scattered her ashes, after a stupid argument about whether or not Catholics had to have their ashes buried or not. Mum had never specified what she wanted, in her will or to us; she hadn’t come close to dying until she did. Amy and I had to make educated guesses about how we were supposed to honour her. We would never know if we were doing it right, and it would never matter if we weren’t.

We’d picked that evening after looking online to see when high tide would come in, and we hadn’t been the only ones: men were positioned at intervals along the edge of the sea, sitting on camping chairs with their rods bending into the lines they’d cast.

It had been hard to decide on something ceremonial to perform for her and us in the wide open space. We couldn’t lay down flowers without littering, without the sea swallowing them. Instead we had taken carrier bags with us and now we set about picking up the litter from the bay where we had scattered her ashes, keeping that part of the coast clean for her, putting tins of strong lager and bottles of cider and jumbo bags of crisps into a carrier bag, a pair of knickers and a tray of curry and chips, and many boxes now empty of super-sized cigarettes. I pulled up a carrier bag tangled in a line of seaweed and a troop of sandhoppers scattered. There was a seagull carcass there I would come back for later.

‘Paul? Amy?’

One of the fishers pulled down his hood and waved.