It was a humid night, sticky and thick, midsummer and still light at nine o’clock. Shadows moved at the edge of my vision. I was on my way to see my cousin Tim. It was his birthday. I hadn’t seen him for six years though I sent him a card on his birthday every year I was away. I’d been back in London for two weeks, lying low and shuffling the tail end of a bad year. I wanted to surprise him.

Lights were on all over the house. I went up the stairs and banged on the door. I could hear music; it was loud, but I wasn’t sure which floor it was coming from. I knocked again and the sound echoed through the hallway of the house. I climbed across to the bay window and looked through. The room was completely empty. No furniture, no carpet, bare walls.

I went back to my car and stood with my hand on the roof and looked once more at the house. It was one of those tall Victorians you find in Hackney, built for a middle-class family and servants. The windows became a brighter yellow as the light faded. I was about to get into the car when I realized the music had stopped. The front door opened and Tim stood at the top of the stairs. He was tall, wearing a dinner jacket with a tee shirt underneath and a bow tie around his bare neck. He held a martini glass. His hand was trembling and liquid spilled over his wrist.

I walked slowly back to ...