109. After

‘She's right, of course,' I say.

Furo scratches his cheek. We're outside, watching a game of cricket. The bat, the ball, the wickets are all made of hard foam. If you're unhinged, you can pretend it's because we're at the beach.

‘I shouldn't have let myself wind up in here,' I say.

‘You wish you hadn't done it?'

‘I wish I'd got someone else to do it.'

‘Pffff,' he says, letting the air rush out between puckered lips. ‘Waste of time. He was dead already.'

‘He still had moments.'

He shrugs.

‘Could I have got someone else to do it?'

He doesn't turn his head but his eyes slide round towards me.

‘Maybe you're a lightweight. But you've got contacts. Right?'

The batswoman smacks the ball with something approaching a crack; it goes flying over all the fielders and they run for it.

‘I don't know what you mean.'

I smile at him. We can sort out the details later.