The following Saturday afternoon, Jenny and Freddie drove back to the village together, and she navigated their way to David’s large half-timbered house, secluded, hidden from the road by a tall line of conifers. The curving drive, bordered by well-tended flower beds, led to the front door: a massive slab of wood with a whimsical brass knocker in the shape of a mermaid. When David opened the door he was smiling, wearing an apron with a William Morris-type print on it, and his hair was a little dishevelled.

‘Hello! It’s so lovely to see you!’ He smiled, hugged Jenny and pumped Freddie’s hand heartily. ‘I’m making a curry, but I haven’t made it before, so apologies if it’s… come in, come in!’ He shut the front door behind them. ‘Here, let me put a light on, it’s so gloomy, isn’t it?’

He was nervous, bless him. Freddie felt himself relax. He gazed around at the parquet floor and slightly shabby wood panelling on the walls. The place smelled of musty lavender.

‘This way, Freddie. Oh, mind the boxes – I’m sorting some things out.’ David led them past two rooms that looked largely empty, and then the hallway widened into a kind of vestibule at the centre of the house from which led three small corridors. The walls were covered with framed photographs.

Freddie pointed at one. ‘Who’s this cutie?’ A small boy was grimly clutching a kite in one hand and a resigned-looking grey kitten in the other. ‘Is that you, David?’

‘Yup.’ He reached up and took it down, smiling. ‘That’s my old pet cat Tinker. I think that was taken on my fifth birthday?’

Freddie looked from the picture to his face and back again. ‘You haven’t changed that much!’

‘Oh God, I hope I have,’ said David. ‘Here’s another, look.’ An indistinct, frowning figure stood next to a bike. A silver balloon attached to the handlebars read ‘HAPPY BIRTHDAY!’ ‘This was taken just a few weeks before I first met Jenny.’

‘How do you remember that?’ Jenny asked.

‘Oh, I have a long memory,’ he replied. ‘For the important things.’

‘Is this your dad?’ Freddie pointed to slightly larger photo, framed in wood.

David glanced at it briefly, and shook his head. ‘No. That’s a family friend who sadly isn’t with us any longer.’

‘Oh. Sorry.’ Freddie, flushed with optimism since calling the infant David a cutie and getting away with it, was now sure he’d managed to put his foot in it by mentioning a dead friend.

‘Oh don’t be. This place is full of pictures and memories, and… Well, like I said, I’m doing a clear-out at the moment. Right, just down here is my mother’s room,’ he said. ‘I told her I’d introduce you. Do you mind if we just say hello?’

He tapped at the open door and pushed it without waiting for a reply. Everything in this room was soft, tufted, in varying shades of pink and apricot; it looked like the inside of a seashell. In the corner, a shrunken woman was nestled in a peachy velvet armchair. Her cerise coloured quilted dressing gown seemed to have bled all the colour from her skin.

David moved soundlessly over the deep pile of the pink carpet, and crouched over her. ‘Mum? She raised her head. ‘I’d like to introduce you to Freddie.’ He pointed at the doorway. Freddie gave an embarrassed little wave, which the woman didn’t register. ‘This is Jenny’s friend – Jenny’s and my friend, I should say. I was telling you about him the other day? Do you remember?’ He left a pause. The woman smiled vaguely. ‘They’re staying for dinner.’

‘Nothing for me.’ The woman had a surprisingly strong voice. ‘I ate at the club.’

David half turned to Jenny and Freddie with a slight frown. ‘So, Mum? If you see Freddie in the house, you’re not to worry, OK? He’s my friend.’

‘Oh I won’t worry,’ she told him. ‘You’re doing very well.’

David left the room and closed the door quietly. ‘She has good days and bad days, and today is a bit of a bad one.’

‘Oh God, I hope us being here hasn’t, you know, disturbed her or anything,’ said Freddie.

Jenny answered. ‘No, no. It has nothing to do with you being here. It’s just the illness; it fluctuates. That’s why nurses are hard to get and keep, aren’t they, David? Sometimes they have nothing to do, and sometimes it’s too big a job for one person. It can change within the hour.’

‘But, she liked you, Freddie, I could tell,’ David told him.

Even though David had obviously been primed to be as friendly and welcoming as possible, Freddie was still touched. This was the David he’d first met at the funeral. A decent, serious man. Sober, interested and sweet.

They followed him to the kitchen at the back of the house, a large, modern extension.

‘This is lovely!’ Freddie looked around admiringly.

‘Yes, I managed to put a bit of pressure on them to modernise the place a bit. Just before Dad… passed. OK, so I have red wine, white wine, beer?’

‘Red wine, please,’ Freddie said.

‘Hang on, Fred, I brought that bottle of Prosecco! It’s in the car; I’ll go and get it.’ Jenny pulled the keys out of his pocket.

Even though David was being so nice, and Freddie was more relaxed than he’d been around him in months, both men quailed when she left and self-consciousness filled the vacuum. Freddie nosed about the room like a puppy waiting for praise, while David busied himself with a manly looking corkscrew, his lips pursed, as if he was whistling. Seeing this, Freddie only just managed to stifle an insane urge to whistle ‘Who’s Afraid of the Big Bad Wolf’. Desperate, he grasped for the blandest topic at hand.

‘It’s a lovely house.’

‘Well,’ David said absently, yanking the cork out with an effort, ‘it will be once I get the building work finalised.’

‘And how are you, Claudine?’ Freddie picked her up and placed her on his lap. ‘Having fun scratching all this furniture?’

‘I had her declawed,’ David said absently.

‘Oh really? But don’t cats need their claws? I mean—’

‘What does she need her claws for? She won’t be getting into any fights here.’

‘No, I meant… I don’t know what I meant. Is it even legal to have a cat de-clawed? I mean…’

David looked at him, and smiled bleakly. ‘What d’you mean? I can do anything to her. She’s my cat, isn’t she?’

As if offering her opinion, Claudine playfully sunk her claws into Freddie’s thigh. He jumped up, and the rattled animal sped out of the room, and David laughed, not an entirely good-humoured laugh. ‘Did you really think I’d had her de-clawed?’

Freddie grimaced confusedly. Between the scratches and the weird turn of the conversation he was struggling. ‘Well, you said you had—’

‘I was joking.’ David laughed. ‘As if I’d hurt her like that. It was just a joke.’ David nodded at the open door, put one finger up, and crossed the room to shut it. ‘I need to ask you something. Matt.’ His voice was low.

‘Matt? Matt: Jenny’s flatmate Matt? What about him?’ Freddie sat back down, wincing.

‘You know he’s been breaking into her room? She told you that?’ David shook his head grimly and thrust a glass of wine at Freddie.

Freddie hesitated. ‘Oh well, I don’t think he broke in. She didn’t tell me anything like that—’

‘Have you met him?’ David interrupted.

Freddie blinked. ‘A few times, very briefly.’

‘What’s he like?’

‘Well, he seems very nice, I mean—’

‘What kind of a man does something like that?’ David interrupted again. ‘I mean it’s strange enough that a single man would rent a room to a single girl, you know? That’s strange, isn’t it?’

Freddie tried to laugh. ‘Well, no. I mean it’s not the 1950s, is it? And anyway, he’s not single. He has a girlfriend and spends a lot of time with her.’ Happily, Freddie knew now that this was the case.

‘Still. To rummage about in other people’s things. Private things.’ David seemed to be working himself up into a quiet rage.

‘Look, I really don’t think… I mean, I don’t know, but then neither does Jenny. She told me that she’s so tired after work that she forgets things, and that’s probably the explanation. It’s more likely to be that, isn’t it? Rather than him breaking into her room—’

‘D’you think I should have a word with him?’ David asked urgently.

‘What?’ Freddie shook his head, as if dizzy. ‘I don’t—’

‘Just to let him know… that I know what he’s up to.’

‘Let him know? But he hasn’t been up to anything! Jenny isn’t sure of—’

‘Or I could go round there and put a lock on her bedroom door. That’d send a message, wouldn’t it?’ He topped up Freddie’s wine. ‘Of course, what she should do is just move in here with me. She’s told you about that? That I want her to move in?’ David said this very quickly.

Freddie opened his mouth, shut it, opened it again. ‘Um…’ he managed.

‘Because she’s not safe where she is. Is she?’

‘I think—’

‘See? Now we just have to convince her.’ He smiled grimly. When Jenny skipped back into the room, his face softened. ‘And here she is!’

‘Sorry I was a while – the bottle had rolled under the seat and I took the handbrake off by accident and then the car started to roll towards the flower beds... it was a bad sight gag. Anyway, what’ve you two been talking about? You look shifty.’

‘Oh, I was just reassuring Freddie that I’m a responsible pet owner,’ David said lightly.

‘He absolutely loves Claudine,’ Jenny told Freddie. ‘I’m not getting her back.’

‘And he was asking about Matt,’ David said smoothly. He didn’t seem to be the same person who’d just been speaking so alarmingly of locks and sending messages. ‘Freddie’s concerned too, aren’t you?’

‘Oh, Fred, I told you, I’m just being a bit paranoid, that’s all.’

‘But – and Freddie was just saying this, and he makes a good point – you are Matt’s tenant, and he has a duty to make you feel as secure as possible. Why don’t you let me put a lock on your bedroom door? It might make you feel better, and worry us less,’ David told her seriously. ‘What d’you think, Freddie?’ Freddie nodded dumbly. ‘Well then, I’ll come over in the week with my trusty toolbox.’ David smiled then. His teeth were as white and even as piano keys. ‘Now we can both stop worrying about her, can’t we Freddie? I have a cold bottle of champagne in the fridge – what say we drink that, and keep your prosecco, is it, for another time? D’you mind getting it, Jenny?’

When she was gone, Freddie started to splutter, and David was all apologies. ‘Sorry. I’m genuinely sorry about that… I’m just so worried about her and I knew that if I told her you were just as concerned, she’d take it a bit more seriously. She hates the idea of worrying you.’ He smiled winningly. ‘So I lied. A white lie, but, still, I’m sorry. But we’re on the same side, aren’t we? I want us to be on the same side.’

Then Jenny came back with the champagne and David opened it with a great flourish.

‘My mother always said that when you toast you should look everyone in the eyes so they know how important they are to you.’ He handed out the glasses ‘To Friendship!’ They all clinked glasses, gazing at each other as requested.

A year or so ago, Freddie had briefly dated an actor and spent many a dull hour sitting in on rehearsals for a very insignificant production of The Seagull. One day, all Chekov’d out, he wandered into the wings, and came across the discarded costumes, the dusty ropes. As the draft from an open door wobbled the inept trompe l’oeil of the false proscenium, Freddie had gazed around, seeing the silhouettes of the actors through the safety curtain, listening to their voices, flat and artificial in the empty theatre, and it was all just so silly. It was a conceit that relied on complicity rather than honesty. He reflected that one heavy step would bring the wobbly walls of the set down and stop the performance dead. That’s all he had to do, just stamp a bit, force it to fall, and they could all stop pretending and go home. He hadn’t done it though. He’d waited and left when he’d planned and he hadn’t split up with the actor until a few weeks later when a stormy argument about The Beatles forced him to (The Beatles – more specifically, the general overrated shitness of The Beatles – was one of Freddie’s few red lines). He had the same feeling now, in David’s house – the same feeling, but worse, and he couldn’t escape – not without abandoning Jenny.

And so, Freddie did what any normal person would do under the circumstances. He decided to get drunk enough to cope with the weirdness and get through the day as best he could.

‘So, basically, I’m going to have to get a better job if I want to keep on seeing Cheryl and keep my placement at the same time.’ Jenny sighed. ‘That way I’ll have enough money to still finish the course by next year and get registered, but if I don’t—’

‘What then?’ asked Freddie.

‘I’ll have to, I don’t know, up my temping hours or take a second job or something. Or I could defer for a year, but I really don’t want to do that. There’s too many balls to juggle at the moment, you know? And I haven’t even updated the blog or anything for ages.’

David said: ‘Don’t you think you’re trying to do too much?’

‘I say that to her all the time, but she doesn’t listen,’ Freddie added.

‘Oh I’m all right. This year will be the hardest. After that things will get easier.’ She nodded, as if she was convincing herself. ‘Some people use work to help them through grief. I think maybe that’s not a bad thing. I mean, if you know that’s what you’re doing, you’re not fooling yourself or anything, maybe it’s useful? Cheryl and I were talking about this the other day—’

‘Oh, Cheryl. Of course. Your therapist.’ David’s voice seemed to put quotation marks around the word. ‘Why are you still seeing her anyway?’

‘I have to see a counsellor myself as part of the course,’ Jenny said after a short pause. Her voice was small, confused.

‘So when you stop the course you can stop seeing Cheryl?’ David frowned.

Jenny shook her head. ‘God no! I don’t think so. I don’t know really. I think there’s still a lot of work to do, to be honest. And it’s standard practice for a therapist to see their own therapist. It’s to help you stay on track, discuss good practice, all that.’

David smirked. ‘“Discuss good practice”.’

‘I know, I know, all the jargon is a bit…’ Jenny smiled apologetically.

‘You know what it sounds like to me?’ David sat back. ‘It sounds like a pyramid scheme. People see a counsellor, who sees their own psychotherapist, who probably sees a psychologist, who probably needs a psychiatrist, and they’re all complicit in trying to fleece as much money as they can from someone who’s arguably saner than all of them put together.’ He laughed. ‘You have to admit, it’s a great way to make money.’

‘I don’t think many people go into it for money,’ Jenny admonished him softly. ‘I’m not going to make my fortune out of this, you know. But, I’ll be doing something important.’

‘And something you’re great at,’ Freddie said warmly. He hadn’t spoken in a while. His voice was a fraction too loud.

David held up his hands in mock surrender. ‘No offence. I’m no expert. It really is great that you’re doing what you want to do.’ He topped up her wine again. ‘So long as it really is what you want to do, and not what you’ve been persuaded to do.’

‘The careers adviser at school told me that I should be an admin assistant,’ Jenny said.

‘He told me I should be an air stewardess. He thought he was being funny,’ Freddie added. ‘What about you, David? What were you meant to be?’

David frowned. ‘There wasn’t a careers person at our school,’ he said.

‘Didn’t you see the same one we did in Sixth Form? He did all the schools in the area. That guy with the ginger beard? The one with the limp?’ Freddie asked.

‘I wouldn’t have seen a careers adviser,’ David said again, smiling. ‘I was homeschooled, remember.’

‘But I thought you boarded at… where was it?’ Freddie screwed up his face, trying to remember. ‘Hazleton? Or Hazlewood? Or somewhere?’

‘Yes. Yes, I did, but before that I was homeschooled. After the stroke.’ David stood up, started collecting the plates. His averted face was tense. When he left the room, Jenny leaned into Freddie,

‘He’s a bit sensitive about the stroke,’ she told him sternly. ‘Can you back off a bit?’

‘Well how could I know he’d take it there? He went from bad careers advice to a stroke in, like, one sentence?’ Freddie hissed.

‘Maybe we just shouldn’t talk about school at all,’ Jenny said. ‘Are you going to be all right to drive? How many have you had anyway?’

‘And what’s his problem with therapy?’

‘I don’t think he has a problem with it,’ Jenny told him. She glanced at the door, lowered her voice. ‘Maybe he had a bad experience or something.’

‘No need to be aggressive about it though, was there?’ Freddie whispered loudly. ‘I mean, especially seeing as you’re in training? That was just rude... Oh, and talk about aggressive, you know the Matt thing? The lock? It wasn’t me—’

But then David came back pushing an old-fashioned dessert trolley. ‘I didn’t make anything, I’m afraid. I don’t have the knack, but I did buy in a selection of things. Let’s see, we have cream cakes, and… what’re these? Scones? Scones. And a trifle.’ He passed around delicate china bowls. ‘It’s all a bit random, I’m afraid.’

‘It’s lovely,’ said Jenny firmly.

‘I love trifle. It’s proper school dinner stuff, isn’t it?’

‘So, at boarding school, David, was it all a bit Harry Potter? All dormitories and gowns and… and… wizard orgies and, OK, I haven’t read any Harry Potter, so I don’t know what I’m talking about…’ Freddie trailed off.

Wizard orgies? Jenny mouthed at him.

‘It was OK,’ David said shortly.

‘Did you miss your parents?’ Freddie leaned forward. ‘I always felt a bit sorry for the kids at St Columbus that boarded, but they were probably perfectly happy. I mean their parents could have been absolute bastards. Their kids were bad enough.’

David flinched slightly. ‘I missed them at first, but then I got used to it,’ he replied quietly.

‘Well, you were that bit older, weren’t you? When you’re older you can cope better with things like that... separation. I suppose—’ Freddie reached for the wine bottle and pulled it towards himself with his fingertips. ‘It’s all about what you’re used to – shit!’ The bottle tipped, rolled and fell. Freddie leaped up, gesturing widely with his too-full glass splashing yet more wine in a wide arc. It splattered over the table, over himself, onto the sofa, and onto the floor. ‘Shit! Shit, sorry!’ He drunkenly backed away from the mess, and yet more wine ran down each trouser leg, puddling further into the very antique-looking rug. ‘Oh god, do you have a cloth?’

David was up, inspecting the rug. He made an assessing hissing sound, and shook his head.

‘I’m sorry! Can I… if I get a cloth?’ Freddie said weakly, but David was already on his way to the kitchen.

Jenny knelt down, patting the stain with a napkin. It spread like blood through the fine fibres of the rug. ‘I think it’s silk or something,’ she said, and looked at Freddie. ‘Careful, you’re still dripping.’

‘Is it bad?’ Freddie stepped back onto the parquet and winced. ‘It’s probably an heirloom or something, isn’t it? Shit!’

‘Yes it’s bad! Why’re you being so weird?’ She was still on her hands and knees. She sounded angry. ‘Seriously, stop drinking.’

When David rushed in with a bowl of soapy water and various stain removers, she and David dabbed, tutted and murmured at the mess. ‘Can he take them off?’ David indicated Freddie’s dripping trousers. ‘At the top of the stairs’ – dab dab dab – ‘chest of drawers? There’s some of Dad’s old trousers in there.’

‘Freddie!’ Jenny hissed, as if David’s words needed translating. ‘Top of the stairs. Trousers!’

‘What, in a room at the top of the stairs, or…?’ Freddie asked, but David didn’t reply. Jenny gave him a severe look, and went back to pressing anxiously at the stain. They looked for all the world as if they were resuscitating a patient.

Freddie, pinching the thighs of his jeans away from the skin, backed out of the room and made his way up the stairs, head swimming, and feeling like an idiot. To Friendship. David likes you, he does he does, so please come to tea? And what happens? Things get weird, things get worse and the clumsy sidekick runs to the wings, reappears in a dead man’s trousers. Slow handclap. Exit left.

He couldn’t see any chest of drawers at the top of the stairs. It had to be in one of the rooms. He pushed open the nearest door and walked into a large, musty-smelling room that was mostly empty, except for two packing crates by the window, a bulky 1930s wardrobe and a CD player, its dusty plug still in the ancient-looking socket above the skirting board. Freddie walked slowly to the wardrobe, opened it. The spotted mirror on the inside door reflected his pink and white face and wine-soaked jeans. There were a few old suits hanging up, and Freddie took the nearest one down. It smelled a bit mildewy, but the trousers looked as if they’d fit. Maybe.

As he jumped and wiggled, trying to fasten them, he managed to knock into the wardrobe. A couple of hand weights rolled out onto the wooden floor with a clunk. He grabbed them, and put them back, wedging the two between an old gym bag stuffed with paper and a small cardboard case marked ‘Precious Memories!’ in one of those old Letrasets.

Precious Memories? That was intriguing. And, after all, he wasn’t in any hurry to go back downstairs and talk to David…

He tried to take a moment to think. Fred, you’re pissed. Maybe scrabbling about in people’s personal possessions isn’t the best idea? He crouched down, the wool of dead man's trousers straining over his thighs. Just go back downstairs, apologise, switch to water – his fingers unlatched the catch – buy a new rug, if needs be. Yes, that’s it, go back downstairs and offer to buy another... Jesus, are we really doing this? Fred? Really?

‘Of course we are,’ he muttered to himself.

‘Precious Memories!’ was divided into three sections with stiff corrugated cardboard, cut specially to fit, and each section was packed with seemingly meaningless objects. A compass. A pink Post-it note. A very old newspaper clipping about fly-tipping. A lady’s chiffon scarf marred by a wine stain. Nothing precious, all trash. It was all pretty boring. Why keep it then?

He closed the lid, shut the wardrobe door and wandered over to the nearest packing case to see if there was a bag or something he could put his wet jeans in, but it just seemed to be full of paper, old binders and loose photographs. He dug deeper, pulled out an empty holdall and shoved his trousers in it.

Now he had nothing to do but go back downstairs and face David.

Knowing he was deliberately dawdling, he looked out of the window. The room faced the back garden. The faint indentations of what had once been the foundations of a building scarred the grass, and, just beyond, what looked like a wooden cross was planted at the end of the shrubbery. It had something written on it, but Freddie couldn’t read it from this distance.

The cross, the empty room, ‘Precious Memories!’, the curtainless windows… it was all depressing. It was also sinister. Uncanny. The whole house was strange. David was strange. Admit it. Admit it to yourself. Yes you’re drunk, yes you’ve behaved badly, but... but David. There’s something about David. Jenny can’t see it, but he’s not right.

He walked slowly out of the room and onto the landing, feeling heavy with this new, fully admitted knowledge. There was something about David, something wrong and rotten at the core of him…

He was so absorbed in his thoughts that, when he felt the hand on his arm, he cried out in shock.

Catherine Crane was standing, thin and paper pale, by the bottom step, half hidden in the shadowy corridor. Her hand was firm, almost steely. The quilted dressing gown drooped on her frame like a shroud, and when she smiled she looked like a bird with teeth.

‘Mrs Crane?’

She held out her other hand to him, placed it on his chest, and her grip softened. Her eyes, he noticed, were the same light grey-blue as David’s, but not as cold, and filled with love.

‘We missed you. We didn’t want you to be away for so long.’ She clung to Freddie’s arms, swayed.

‘Are you all right? Mrs Crane?’

Now she was leading him falteringly down the corridor. She smelled of Chanel No. 5 and denture cream and something else… something not fresh. ‘It’s all about presentation, isn’t it? Clothes maketh the man.’

‘You mean the trousers? I’m sorry, I had a bit of an accident. David said it was OK if I borrowed these.’

‘No matter what anyone says, I know it was an accident.’ She told him firmly.

‘And I’m so sorry about the rug. I’ll fix everything, get everything clean I promise,’

‘You feel better, you do, now, don’t you?’ She stopped, gazed at him, dim eyes piteous with love. ‘What’s passed is passed? Mmmm? Hazlewood works wonders.’

Finally Freddie realised that she really didn’t know who she was talking to. ‘Shall I go and get David for you?’ Freddie took a little step backwards, but one thin hand tugged at his elbow with surprising strength.

‘I ate at the club,’ she told him firmly. And then she began to shake.

‘Fred?’ Jenny came around the corner. ‘Where’ve you been?’

‘Finding trousers. And then David’s mum—’

‘Catherine?’ Jenny came forward. ‘Are you OK?’

She nodded at Freddie again, saying: ‘I ate at the club.’ A stream of mustard coloured urine ran down one leg and puddled in her slipper.

‘Oh lord, can you get David? Fred? Go and get David.’ Jenny was already cradling Catherine by one elbow and steering her back towards her room. ‘Catherine? Let’s get you cleaned up.’

‘I missed him,’ Catherine told her. ‘But Hazlewood worked wonders.’

‘Yes. Yes, I know. Let’s get you comfy… Fred? Go and get David, will you?’

Freddie ran to the sitting room, but David wasn’t there. He found him in the kitchen, frowning over his phone. Cloths, stained pink with wine, were scattered on the draining board, like so many shot birds. ‘David, your mum—’

‘What?’ David paled and came forward. ‘What’s happened?’

‘She’s… she needed to go to the toilet and well, there’s another rug to clean, I’m afraid.’

‘Oh God.’ David put the phone down on the work surface and shouldered past him. ‘I’m sorry!’ he said.

‘Oh no, it’s not, I mean, I hope she’s all right,’ Freddie called weakly at his back, and followed a few paces behind, his dead-man’s flares flapping around his wine-stained ankles.

Jenny was sitting with Catherine on the tufted pink chaise longue, murmuring empty conversation. The older woman seemed to be almost asleep, her greying hair nestled and mingled with Jenny’s tawny curls, and the fabric of her nightdress fluttered with each tiny breath. Jenny looked up at David and smiled. ‘She’s OK. Just got a bit confused, that’s all.’

‘I’m sorry.’ David sounded close to tears. ‘I’m so sorry that—’

Jenny shook her head. ‘What’s to be sorry about? It’s OK. Everything’s OK.’

David let out a painful noise; an angry sob.

‘Catherine? David’s going to sit with you now, is that OK? Here he is now.’ Jenny ever so gently eased Catherine’s head off her shoulder and swapped places with David. David, his face averted, stretched one arm across his mother’s shoulders, mechanically. Both Jenny and Freddie tiptoed out of the room, not looking at each other until they were safely back in the sitting room.

‘Wow,’ Freddie whispered then.

‘I feel so sorry for him,’ Jenny whispered back.

‘She was talking to me like she thought I was him.’

Jenny nodded. ‘Same to me. Poor woman. Poor David. Look, let’s clean up a bit, fill the dishwasher and stuff, and then we should probably leave.’ She gazed at his trousers. ‘Wow. That’s all you could find?’

‘Dead Dad trousers.’

‘Where are your jeans?’

‘In a bag. I left it at the bottom of the stairs.’

They quietly cleared the sitting room of dishes, rolled everything back to the kitchen on the dessert tray, and began stacking the dishwasher. By the time they’d finished, David was at the door. His face was pale, and there were small red dots around his eye sockets, as if he’d been crying. He said: ‘I can’t apologise enough.’

Jenny came forward. ‘You don’t have to. Come on, David, if anyone understands it’s me, right?’

‘I just wanted everything to be perfect.’ He swallowed his words. ‘It’s so important that you—’

‘David,’ she took his hand, ‘you don’t have to worry. About anything. Please don’t? OK?’

He nodded, but he kept his head bowed.

The phone he’d left on the work surface rang, but he didn’t make any move to pick it up. So Freddie did instead. Andreena. Why was Andreena calling David?

Jenny took the phone off him. ‘Hi, Dree. Listen, I can’t really talk now, can I...’

And Freddie realised, with a start, that the phone he’d seen David looking through only a few minutes before wasn’t his at all – it was Jenny’s – and something in the atmosphere cracked, like hot water poured into a cut-glass bowl, and only Freddie and David could hear it.

David disappeared, then came back with the holdall. ‘You can keep the bag,’

‘OK,’ Freddie answered dazedly

‘Everything in that room is rubbish.’ David said then. ‘Next time you come it’ll all be cleared away. Burnt.’ He thrust the bag at him. ‘You’re not driving.’ It was a statement rather than a question.

‘Don’t worry, he won’t be,’ Jenny told him. ‘That was Dree, she wants to meet you. Properly.’

‘I’ll be very glad to,’ David said stiffly. Then his face relaxed, and he smiled. ‘I’ll make a meal, she can come over here.’ He reached for Freddie’s free hand. ‘Nice to see you again.’

‘Mmmmm.’

‘And don’t worry about the mess you made, it’s all fixable.’

Freddie couldn’t do anything but nod dumbly back.

David stood at the front door, watching them get into the car, watching Jenny gingerly pull the seat in, and frown at the dashboard. Just as they were about to turn, David walked leisurely to the passenger window, rapped on the window. He smiled.

‘Be careful.’

‘Oh, we will, don’t worry.’ Jenny was worriedly checking her mirrors. ‘I’m too much of a nervous driver to be anything else.’

Then he backed away, and held one hand up, stiff and still in the air.

They stayed silent until they were out of the village and on the main road. Jenny was nervy and preoccupied, prone to making sudden, crunching gear changes and fearful glances in the rear-view mirror. Freddie sat in the passenger seat feeling guilty, feeling fearful, and still quite drunk.

‘OK, so that was... kind of awful.’ he said eventually.

Jenny flicked on the indicator, but managed to put windscreen wipers on instead. ‘No. No, it’s fine. David wasn’t angry or anything. Can you push something? I don’t know how to turn this off.’

‘When I went to the kitchen, you know, after the thing with his mum?’

‘God, I hope she’s all right,’ she murmured.

‘In the kitchen? I saw David—’

‘That rug too. I hope the rug’s all right. Do I take a left here? Fred?’

‘Yes. Left. Well, I saw him looking through your phone.’ He said this last bit in a rush.

Jenny made the left, sighed. ‘God, I hate motorways… it’s the joining them that scares me. And the lorries – look at this guy! Freddie, should I let him pass or what?’

‘Did you hear me? I saw David looking through your phone. In the kitchen.’

Jenny frowned in the mirror, harried, a bit exasperated. ‘No, you didn’t, don’t be silly.’

‘He was though! And when I saw him he just kind of looked at me.’

‘God, how pissed are you anyway?’ Her eyebrows crumpled together. ‘David and I have the same type of phone, you know. It was his phone you saw, not mine.’

‘No, honestly, Jen, it wasn’t. He was looking through it, and he put it down when I came in, and that was the same phone Andreena called. I know it was yours. I’m positive.’

‘You’re pissed is what you are,’ she muttered.

‘And what about this – that picture of you? The one I took in Turkey with you in the sarong?’ His voice rose. ‘I saw it on David’s Facebook page when I friended him, a few months ago and, get this, as soon as I friended him he took it down.’ He stopped, looked at her eagerly. ‘So how did he have that picture on his wall before he’d even met you?’

Jenny frowned. ‘What wall? His Facebook wall?’

‘No. Well kind of, on his wall wall. It was in a frame, hanging up just behind his head on his profile picture. I’m positive.’

‘Well if you were that positive, why didn’t you tell me at the time?’ she asked reasonably.

‘I don’t know.’ He hated how hesitant and lame he sounded. ‘I maybe wasn’t that sure, but then I saw him looking through your phone, and it made me sure.’ He paused, got nothing from her set profile, and went on excitedly, knowing on some level that he was doing exactly the wrong thing. ‘And, he’s so jealous of Matt, too! Banging on about getting a lock on your door and everything.’

‘You were worried about that too though!’

‘Ah! No. David told you I was worried, but when you were out of the room it was him that was telling me how worried he was.’

Jenny shook her head. ‘Basic syntax, Fred.’

‘He told me he’d had Claudine de-clawed!’ Freddie said wildly.

‘Fred—’

‘And your family pictures: when you said about not having any photos, he got really angry—’

‘He didn’t get angry; he was surprised, that’s all.’ She sounded stern now. ‘He thought it was sad. It is sad. You said it was sad.’ She slowed, took the motorway exit. After a long silence she said, ‘Why’re you doing this? No, wait, I know why you’re doing this.’

‘I’m worried about you, that’s all. Jen? David… there’s something not right about him. The things he says, and he twists things. Like saying I was worried about Matt, I told him to buy you those clothes. He’s weird Jen. I don’t want him to be, but he is and I’m scared for you.’

She didn’t reply but shook her head with such quiet rage that Freddie shut up like a clam. They didn’t exchange another word until they’d arrived at his flat.

‘I’ve sobered up now,’ he said. ‘I can drop you back at yours if you want? Or why don’t you stay here?’

‘College work to do,’ she said tightly, not looking at him, turning to leave.

‘OK. I’ll call you tomorrow? Or you call me?’ he called.

She didn’t respond, carried on walking quickly away, angry fists in her pockets.

‘Jen! I’m sorry.’

She didn’t look back.

It was getting dark, and the cold air bit. It would take her ages to walk home. He almost got in the car with an idea of driving around until he found her, persuading her to come back, but, in the end, he decided against it. Despite what he’d told her, he was still a bit drunk, and couldn’t be sure of his instincts. He thought about Jenny going back to her grim flat. He imagined David calling her, all sobriety and care; he imagined her apologising for him – ‘Freddie is protective, that’s all’ – imagined David’s measured response, something along the lines of: ‘It’s wonderful that he respects you so much’, or some such phrase packed with hurt and covert dislike… he’d sound so dignified and restrained, making Freddie seem even more childish and hysterical by comparison. There was something wrong with David – something uncanny, unconvincing. There was something condescending in his devotion to Jenny. How could he love her, and lie to her? How could he love her and loathe her friend? It was a strange devotion if it was tinged with contempt. But Jenny couldn’t see it. She was too close. Freddie knew he could have made her see things his way if he’d just… handled it better. But he wouldn’t give up. He couldn’t. Jenny – sweet, brave, Jenny. Outwardly cynical, inwardly too-trusting, Jenny needed him.

And so, after taking off the dead man’s flares, and swallowing paracetamol with a third cup of tea, he started digging for David. The real David.

Where to start though? There were so many entry points. The fire. The stroke. The private school. Homeschooling. Catherine had said he was away for so long. They’d missed him. Hazlewood. They work wonders. Start there.

There were quite a few Hazlewood Schools, but only one that accepted boarders, and even then only up to the age of thirteen. David was older than that when he’d had the stroke – the final year before Sixth Form, so he must have been fifteen or sixteen, and he’d gone to Hazlewood straight from hospital… Perhaps Freddie had conflated the hospital and the school in his mind? He searched for ‘Hazlewood Hospital’ on the off-chance.

The first hit made him fizz with excitement.

Turrets and spires. Smiling people lounging on the lawn. A friendly faced woman with a discreet name badge sat at a desk, smiling at someone with their back to the camera.

Here at Hazlewood, we devise a personalised care package to suit your needs with a wide range of therapies and fee structures… depending on how long you want or need treatment, we use a range of therapies which we can offer to you individually or in group therapy session.

Our Child and Adolescent facility supports young people with a range of diagnoses including:

Depression or anxiety

Emerging personality disorder

Eating disorder

Emotional, social & behavioural difficulties

Psychosis

Self-harm/suicidal ideation

This was a mental hospital. Who goes to a mental hospital after a stroke? Was this the rehabilitation he was talking about? Hazlewood works wonders. We missed you. How long had he been there anyway?

He opened a new document, and noted down everything that now seemed doubly sketchy about David:

Looking through J’s phone

Therapy as a pyramid scheme

Matt paranoia

Profile picture!

(Lying about) Mental hospital!!!

He hesitated. Should he include other, less concrete, fears? Buying Jenny the shoes, the clothes, styling her according to his wishes, as if she were a little doll. And what about the dead man’s clothes? The box marked ‘Precious Memories!’, the grave at the end of the garden, and the mad woman in the pink bedroom? But, while it was all very gothic and added to the atmosphere of general weirdness, he had to admit that none of these things amounted to evidence of anything; it was all background colour though, wasn’t it? It lent context and support to the idea that All Was Not Right With David. And what about the sudden rage at Barbra Streisand? Well… Freddie had to be fair; it was an incredibly annoying ringtone. He’d picked it because it was annoying… even his own father, normally calm as a Hindu cow, had threatened to smash his phone if he didn’t change it. Even Barbra herself probably hated it. Enough, enough with Barbra, focus… what had happened to make David ill enough to get put in a mental hospital? The fire? It was worth researching. Half an hour later though, he still hadn’t turned up anything about this Tony guy, or a fire in the village. Maybe the family had kept it quiet? Remember the day of the funeral? When Mum said that there’d been talk in the village about petrol… a suicide attempt… or maybe not a suicide attempt at all?

He pushed the computer away, and took a shower to clear his head. The problem was that he was doing this by himself when he was used to working out difficult problems in tandem with Jenny. They worked better together, and always had. Look what happened when they went to different universities? Jenny had only lasted a term or two, but when they were together again, she believed in herself enough to start a whole new career. They were good for each other. Maybe that was it; Freddie had taken a back seat – given them space – all the other awful clichés you wanted to use, and, left alone, she’d got herself sunk into this mire with David. Perhaps all he had to do was tell her everything in a well-ordered, not-drunk-covered-in-wine way. Two Heads Are Better Than One. A Rolling Stone… stop that now. It’s no fun on your own.

So he called Jenny, left her a voicemail, kept it brief so she could tell he was sober and serious. ‘Could they meet tomorrow? Here or in town? It’s important.’

She texted back:

8.30 a.m. Tiffin Coffee Bar.

Her brevity spoke volumes. He nearly called her again, but stopped himself. He drafted three emails, but didn’t send them. Instead he sat in the darkening room, looking at his list, and rehearsing his opening line. ‘David has problems.’ ‘David has lied to you.’ ‘David might be dangerous.’ ‘Let me help you.’ After all, it was his duty to help her. It was all his fault. He’d done everything he could to get them together; he’d been David’s biggest fan; poor Jenny thought she’d found her Prince Charming, and tomorrow Freddie was going to break her heart. It was for the best, but it was still so sad.