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alcohol or just part of my general confusion. I did not care. At least I could feel it. Adam scooped up both empties and headed for the bar, leaving me to brood. Which was bad. Because when he came back and prompted me, “So you were saying that it doesn't make sense...” it was the last thing I wanted.
    “Can we just leave it, Adam?”
    He raised his hands in surrender. “Point taken. Drinks, not talk. Understood. I just thought—oh, forget it, I'll shut up.”
    So now I felt guilty as well. I tried to drown the feeling in beer. Adam gazed at a huge TV screen at the far end of the pub—grainy pictures of footballers running around, coloured boxes filled with indecipherable statistics—and my thoughts drifted slowly away from my annoyance and guilt towards Adam, and spiralled down towards one inevitable truth.
    Gone. Verity, gone.
    Time passed. More drink.
    “It doesn't make sense, Ads... she was happy. She was.”
    “And now you're wondering if she was keeping something from you.” Adam's tone was matter-of-fact.
    “She wouldn't. Never.” But I was not as sure as I sounded.
    He looked at me again, another long, contemplative gaze. “So tell me,” he said.
    My head was floating somewhere, spinning in furious circles, analysing, finding no sense, frantically ordering shards of thoughts and watching them dissolve into chaos. Colourlessly, I told Adam about Verity standing me up, about leaving the message for her and going to bed angry with her, about discovering what had happened from Gabriel the next morning. I told him I was worried about what would happen in the future: who would look after Verity, and how? But most of all I told him how I felt: that I couldn't help believing that what she'd done was somehow my failure.
    Adam listened. He prompted me when I could find nothing to say. When I was near to tears, he reached out and squeezed my arm. When I was embarrassed he told me to sod the rest of the pub, I should cry if I wanted. Mostly he just listened. He hunched broadly over our table, his shirt-sleeved forearms resting unnoticed in a sweaty sheen of spilt beer and condensation. His eyes were wise and steady. His high forehead was creased with concern. When I finished my third pint he raised a finger for me to pause, downed his own drink, and drifted through the throng to the bar, managing to get served almost immediately again. He slid back with two fresh beers, and settled attentively. To be honest, I don't have much idea what I said, only what I felt. There was gratitude to Adam, for listening without question. There was relief that I was not alone. It was grief, of a preliminary sort: another beginning, perhaps.
    And when I'd done, he said, “Drink” again, very firmly, and ghosted through the crowd to fetch yet another round—our fifth, heaven help us. It felt good. We sat in silence for a long time, a vacuum Adam would normally hurry to fill with words and laughter.
    After a while I took pity on him. “Thank you, Adam,” I said. “I needed that. Badly.”
    His face split into a boyish grin, and he raised his glass to me in a silent toast. Then he asked, “So, do you want to hear about my day now?”
    And I actually laughed.
    *
    Adam...
    He was all that stood between me and despair in the days after Verity's fall.
    He was big and broad, and getting badly out of shape. He referred to the swelling mound of fat on his stomach as his “turtle;” imagine one clamped to your belly, all four flippers wrapped around you—as you walk, it jiggles up and down, an embarrassing hump. His hair was dark, his complexion pale and a little blotchy. Behind his thin-rim designer glasses, his eyes alternated between wisdom and hawkishness, shyness and laughter. His face had always been plump, even at school, and his mouth was a little too broad for it. When he smiled, which was often, it seemed to take over his whole face, and his brilliant white teeth formed a ragged line. His grin was diffident, but full of