On his way back to his room he encountered Frank in the corridor. ‘Any news on what caused that crash?’ he asked, with a snide smirk.

‘I dare say you’ll find out soon enough,’ Vic said, pushing past. He had no intention of sharing secrets with a snake.

Vic had just vague memories of the only other funeral he’d ever attended, of a great-uncle, long ago in India. It had involved a seemingly endless train journey to another city, then watching long into the night as men sang prayers and poured oil into the flames of an enormous bonfire. The following day they’d climbed onto an overcrowded boat where his mother and all the other women, dressed in dazzling white saris, wailed inconsolably as the ashes fluttered on the wind and settled on the brown river, leaving a long slick in their wake. After that they’d had to stay another two weeks among the crowd of mourning women, waiting for the big feast.

‘Naanyi’s soul has reached the afterlife,’ his mother had said, as though that explained everything.

When, later, she’d stopped crying, he’d plucked up the courage to ask, ‘What is the afterlife, Mother?’

‘It’s where our souls go when we die,’ she’d said, tousling his hair in that way he hated.

‘Is it nice there?’

‘It is wonderful. Better than here on earth.’

The little village church in Petersfield was already filled to bursting. Johnnie must have been much loved. However much Vic wished that his friend was actually enjoying himself surrounded by angels on some blissful cloud, the sight of the coffin borne on the shoulders of six strong men, followed by his weeping wife and children, soon dispelled the vision. Inside that wooden box were the remains of a man who’d meant so much to people here on earth. How could he possibly be happy in heaven, when his passing had caused such sadness?

The words of the service were strange to his ears. As the vicar beseeched, ‘O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?’ he could hear Johnnie muttering Search me, mate, and had to conceal his smile in a handkerchief, which earned him a comforting squeeze on the arm from his neighbour. It felt even more bizarre when they all followed the coffin out into the churchyard – in silence, no wailing women here – and gathered round to watch it being lowered into a deep, straight-sided hole. The vicar began to intone once more: ‘Man that is born of a woman hath but a short time to live, and is full of misery. He cometh up, and is cut down, like a flower.’

Not much consolation there, old friend, he thought to himself.

Lizzie and the children were each invited to throw a handful of earth. The process struck him as somehow primitive, and made him shudder. On balance, he preferred his mother’s version of death. He slipped discreetly behind a tree, waiting for the right moment to pay his respects to Lizzie before heading back to the train station.