It’s the first time I’ve seen him in full light. The chase must have taxed him; his face is waxy with sweat, his dark hair turned wavy with damp. He has a sort of sweet softness to him – the polar opposite of Vincent’s rugged good looks. He has a face that has read a lot of books. There was nothing to do but to cross the road with him to the twenty-four-hour café next to the taxi rank and buy him a cup of milky white, strong and sweet. I smiled at Hussein behind the counter. He knows all of us from Marie Francis; we come in a lot throughout the night, and sometimes he’ll bring us over a tray of doughnuts as a treat. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say to Hugh. It seems like the only sensible thing to say. He’s lost so much, and even the things he’s found, he’s going to lose again. ‘Perhaps, though … Perhaps this might be for the best …?’ ‘Because everything happens for a reason?’ he says wearily. ‘Sounds like one of the posters you see with kittens on, pinned up in an office.
