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from the sudden implied violence. I was filled for a moment with a terrifying awareness of all those near misses that we bury and forget, the endless parade of moments when our lives could have changed irrevocably and, through chance, had not.
    “Thanks again, Adam,” I said softly.
    He shook his head mournfully. “No more thanks, Harry. Beer. This evening. You need it. So do I.” I nodded, reluctantly.
    Adam hopped out and strode across the road towards the BMW. He waved briefly, pulled out and roared away. I stayed behind the wheel, gazing blankly at the road ahead of me.
    Verity, bruised and bloated, crippled beyond recovery. She had chosen to die alone. She had not come to ask my blessing. She had not come to say goodbye.
    Perhaps I never knew her at all.

CHAPTER 5
    ADAM PLONKED TWO pints on the table—bitter for him, lager for me—and settled opposite me astride a stool. His knee nudged the table and he grabbed his pint hastily to prevent a disaster. He swept a patch clear of puddles with the edge of a beer mat, planted his elbows, and frowned at me. “Harry, you look terrible.”
    There was not much I could say. In fact, there was not even much I wanted to say. I was lethargic and numb. I really did not want to be there.
    Adam raised his glass and took a hefty swig. “Drink up. Dr. Yates knows best.”
    Possibly he did know best. I certainly did not. I just wanted everything to go away. I wanted to wake up and find that none of it was real. There was relief in having someone else take charge. So I took a gulp. It was gassy and cold, and left me completely uninterested. The low table between us was crazed with circular stains; I brushed my hand over them absently. It did not help bring the world into focus. The real world around me was miles away. “That's the way,” Adam said. “It'll come.”
    The trouble was, I didn't want it to.
    We were at a designer pub near the town hall—you know the kind of place: huge, lots of bare wood, classy beers and overpriced food, part of a chain with themed names, the Slug, the Rat, the Pitcher and the Pickled Ferret in a Boat. Or something. Verity would have hated it. Someone edged past my chair with an armful of drinks, tripped, and I narrowly missed having my shirt sluiced with an obscure Czech lager.
    “Another.” Adam meant another swig. He peered at me over his glasses.
    “Adam, I really don't—”
    He reached over and put his hand on my forearm. “Harry, you need this, trust me. You're in shock, I know, but you're going to have to face it, ‘else you'll be walking round like a zombie. It happened .” He waited until I met his eyes; then he leaned back and gestured at our drinks. “So the plan is to have a few of these, loosen up a little. Not much of a plan, I'll grant you, but the best I could come up with.” He jerked his head expectantly at my pint. “Go on.”
    Another swig. Sharp and unsatisfying, but perhaps it warmed that empty place in my chest. Maybe drinking would help, maybe not. Either way, it was better than staying at home staring at the wall. And Adam was all I had left. I had other friends, of course, but I was only ever really close to Adam. And Verity.
    “It doesn't make sense,” I mumbled.
    “What? Getting drunk?” He raised his eyebrows, surprised. “Well, that's the beauty of it. You—”
    “Not that. Verity.” But I almost laughed, a little. Then I hated myself for it. Adam gazed at me, his pupils large and deep through the lenses. “Oh, forget it,” I muttered, and sank my face into my beer.
    “You didn't see this coming at all, did you?” His voice was gentle enough that it did not sound obtuse and insensitive; it was just an invitation to talk.
    “Look, Ads—”
    “Okay, okay, I know.” He drained his pint and pointed to mine. “Seconds away, time for another round.” I knocked back what was left of my first. It sat heavily inside me. I was not sure if my light-headedness was an unexpectedly early reaction to the