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never been two-way.’
    Mum was fussing about how dangerous it was that the funeral was going to be at Ty’s gran’s old church in Hackney. Maybe they shouldn’t have brought me.
    ‘What if some gunman turns up?’
    ‘A 6 am massacre at St Michael’s?’ scoffed my dad. ‘Don’t worry, they’ve got all the bad guys under lock and key. And these old school gangsters, they respect
a funeral. Mind you, I think they should’ve done it somewhere else, but there you go. People are sentimental.’
    I didn’t know whether to hope a gunman would turn up – I could be a hero, shielding Nicki from the flying bullets – or not. Ideally not, on reflection.
    ‘She loved that church,’ said my mum, wiping away a tear. ‘And then they’ll bury her next to Mick. She loved him so much, and he died so young . . . oh, poor Julie. .
.’
    She was off again.
    ‘Come on, Pen,’ said Dad. ‘Pull yourself together. You’re not family. Can’t have you wailing louder than the mourners.’
    She sniffed, blew her nose, and said, ‘Thanks a lot, David, for your sympathy. I’m crying now so I won’t have to once we get there.’
    ‘Good to hear it. I hadn’t realised tears were a limited resource.’
    ‘Well, mine are, actually. I wouldn’t dream of making an exhibition of myself at the funeral. But it’s not just me. My sisters are just as upset.’
    ‘She was only your nanny,’ he said, turning a corner – without indicating, I noticed. A car beeped at us.
    ‘Oh, you wouldn’t understand.’
    ‘No, true, I wasn’t brought up knee-deep in loyal retainers.’
    ‘No, well, we can’t all grow up in the East End slums and battle our way out single-handed.’
    ‘No, we can’t,’ said Dad smugly.
    Honestly, one downside of not being at boarding school is listening to them arguing all the time. Luckily they both work really long hours and go away a lot.
    Then the satnav said, ‘You have reached your destination,’ and my dad sighed and said, ‘Here we go.’ We parked in a side road, a terrace of red-brick houses, not unlike
our road in Fulham, actually, except there was more rubbish in the street, and peeling paint on doors and windows, and there was no noise from builders digging out basements or converting
lofts.
    The church is crammed in between a Cypriot bakery and something called a Private Shop. There’s an armed policeman on the doorstep and he quizzes us about who we are and why we’re
here. Mum explains and he lets us in. It’s like trying to get into a top nightclub.
    Inside, about twenty people are scattered among the pews, someone’s playing gloomy tunes on the organ, and there are two more armed policemen.
    ‘An open coffin? Is that normal?’ whispers Dad, looking around as Mum crosses herself, and she nods and says, ‘Julie was always very traditional. That’s how they do it
back in Ireland.’
    ‘Jesus,’ says Dad, and Mum gives him a killer glare.
    There are only about twenty people at the funeral, and more of them are related to me than are part of Ty’s other family. I feel a bit sorry for his gran – her coffin looks lonely.
Her daughters are there, obviously, and Danny, sitting behind them, next to some guy with a tangerine tan, a pink shirt and blinding white teeth.
    Nicki looks gorgeous, as per usual, in a tight black suit which hugs her curves –
Lambeth North
– high heels and a shimmery white blouse, through which I can see . . .
Elephant and Castle
. Stop it, Archie. This is a funeral.
    Her sister Emma isn’t bad, either – a bit plump, which isn’t a bad thing, with super-straight blonde hair. Then there’s the older one, Louise, who’s a teacher at an
international school somewhere weird. She looks a bit grim. I’ve met her before and I don’t think I’ve ever seen her smile. She gives me a piercing stare, and I can see her
thoughts as though she had a speech bubble over her head.
    Not at school?
she’s thinking.
Bet he’s been expelled again
.
    There’s no