The ‘Sono andati’ aria from La Bohème, Mimi’s death scene, accompanies Cullen as he drives through the darkening streets of Clifton. He hums tunelessly along, looking forward to his solo pint and his solo dinner. A car hoots behind him. It’s commuter hour, which here in Clifton means a flow of traffic out towards the bridge. He checks his speed and, realising he’s been doing twenty in a thirty-mile-an-hour zone, opens the window on the driver’s side, slows down to a near stop, leans out and screams at the driver behind. ‘Fuck you too!’ When the driver attempts to overtake, he pulls the Volvo out into the middle of the road to block him. At the next junction the road widens into two lanes and the driver pulls alongside. He’s staring intently ahead, not wanting any trouble. Well, too late, mate. Cullen keeps pace then all of a sudden accelerates, cuts him up and brakes hard at a red light. Fellow behind has to swerve to avoid hitting him.

Haha, that feels better.

He checks the light and accelerates away from the junction. The rain continues to blur his view. Shop window lights flash past him like a series of cheap fireworks, their colours fading into his peripheral vision. His route takes him past a group of young women heading out for a night on the town. How young they look and how full of hope and glossy optimism. Staring makes him feel old and worn out, like a vampire circling his next meal, but also rather wonderfully powerful. They are behind him now, but his gaze still flicks up to the rear-view mirror, a distant note of disgust sounding in the symphony of desire playing in his head.

It is a relief when he can no longer see them. Up ahead the lights of the Clifton Suspension Bridge pinken the skyline. He imagines Satnam Mann poised at the barrier, pictures the bridge, with its suspension cables slung across the gorge like tightropes. There’s only one rule if you find yourself on a tightrope and that is to keep moving forward and don’t look down.

Cullen parks at the rear of the Saracen’s Arms and orders a pint with a whisky chaser and a chicken pie and stares vacantly at the big screen showing a Premier League match, relishing the luxury of not having to think for a while. He’s just finishing the pie when his phone lights up. Amanda. If only he had the strength to ignore her.

‘Hello, Mother,’ he says.

‘Christopher, they wouldn’t let me see the hairdresser today.’

‘I’m sorry about that,’ he says, closing his eyes and doing his best to take his mind back to the sublime moment in the car with Puccini playing and his evening ahead of him.

‘You’ll have to come.’

‘I will?’ His heart sinks into his shoes.