We faced each other. This boy had stabbed my husband, almost killed him. And yet I felt guilty. ‘Jake. I want you to know that I – I understand why you did what you did. You must have been very angry.’

He said nothing. The slurping of the juice was rude, childish, and I tried not to let it annoy me.

‘But you hurt him. He’s really sick. Jake, he’s – the doctors say he needs a transplant. His liver.’ I didn’t know how to talk to him. I was speaking to him like a child, like Benji, and here he was in prison. ‘Jake . . . do you see what I’m saying? Mike is really, really sick.’

He didn’t react. Did I expect him to be sad? He tried to kill Mike. Perhaps he was sorry Mike wasn’t dead. I couldn’t believe that of sweet, sensitive Jake, who’d cried so hard that day I told him we were leaving town. ‘I know you didn’t mean to hurt him like you did,’ I risked. My throat felt like it was closing over. ‘Jake, I – I know we let you down. Moving out of London. We didn’t see you enough. I’m sorry. I wish I could change things, but I can’t.’

Jake just looked at me, his head cocked slightly to one side. Finally he said, ‘Why are you here?’

‘Because he’s very sick. He needs a transplant, but you know it takes for ever to get donor organs, and there’s no guarantee – we can’t wait that long. The other chance is a living donor, when you give a bit of your liver. You know, our livers can grow back. It’s pretty clever really. But, you see, it has to be a match. A relative. I can’t. And Cassie . . .’

Her name at least got a reaction from him. He turned away slightly, folding his arms. They were smooth, unmarked. I imagined them covered in prison tattoos. I knew he loved Cassie, even if he hated me, and Mike even more. ‘She can’t,’ I said, my nose filling up again with the unfairness of it, with the sound Cassie made sobbing. ‘She tried but she’s not a match.’