‘Betsy had her handbag pinched while out shopping one day and was pretty distraught. The security team took her in and offered to phone someone for her. There was only one home number she could remember off the top of her head, she says. Gillian went marching down there to help and her anger at the guy who attacked her mate eradicated anything that had come before.’

‘Blimey,’ I state.

‘I’d beat up a thug for you any day,’ Zaza states, squeezing Vicky.

‘That’s a lovely notion, but please don’t,’ Vicky pleads before we all chuckle.

An hour later we’re on the last excursion of the day and visiting a local home, owned by relatives of our Peruvian guide Kevin. It’s vastly different from what we’re used to. The house is one square space with a table at one end, a fire in the middle, bowls of food and water scattered around the floor and a bed in one corner. We’re surrounded by Inca stone walls that are home to goat, or alpaca carcasses, which are hung like artworks. While I’m trying to avoid looking too much at those my gaze lands on an alcove in the wall that holds a vase full of yellow and purple flowers. Before the more palatable image can take my mind away from the dead animals, I spot what’s below it. Under a blanket, as though they’re spying on what’s going on in the room, are three human skulls sitting side by side.

‘Jesus,’ mutters Zaza.

‘My ancestors,’ Kevin says, appearing at my side. I glance over to see his expression is one of affection as he looks ahead.

‘Oh,’ I reply, turning back to his family, unsure on the politest way to respond.

‘We don’t tend to do that back home,’ manages Vicky.

‘Here it’s seen as good luck,’ says Kevin, nodding his head. ‘They protect my aunt’s home and are good company for her. They conjure up good things. Love, affection, and they’re good for the memory of what came before. No one is forgotten,’ he adds in such a way it’s almost impossible not to see the beauty in the tradition, even if it is eerie.

I don’t think I’d take great comfort from Pia’s skull being displayed in this way, but each to their own. I guess we all take comfort from different things and process death in our own way. Imagine if I did want to do that though. Where would I have put her? In the bedroom? The lounge? Would I have moved her around, wrapped her up and carried her with me to meetings each day, chatted away to her while I was on my lunch break? Still included her in every bit of life I was still here to live?

I think about the contents of my backpack. I really do need to talk to the girls.