Death is everywhere. On the east side of the street, Sameera Raflique waits at the lights, broken. Abdul to whom she was married at seventeen, now buried; his messages still on her voicemail, the dent of his backside on the seat of the leather armchair, dirt from his hands still on the cracked bar of soap in the back bathroom. The knowledge that she will never hear him ask her if she’d like tea, the click of his key in the lock, talking over the TV, his laugh. All is emptiness. A blank flatline where once they had a future. Each day a joyless rerun of the day before; every moment one she wants to share with him when he gets home. Raflique had no idea it was possible to feel so sad. She wishes it had been her, then thanks God that it wasn’t, that he wouldn’t be left feeling how she does now. The children miss him, but not like she does. They don’t know him like she does; they don’t understand why he’s not coming back. Death and five-year-olds. They’re sad because she cries all the time. Today they’re at Topsy Turvy in Brent Cross with Marcia’s children. Two hours where she can run basic errands and not be mummy; where she can be Sameera, sad Sameera, indulging her grief, mourning her beautiful Abdul alone. The clown wonders what the woman might have lost. For the briefest of moments as she crosses the wide A5 and passes him on her way to the station, he feels kindred. He is her and she him. It never gets better, he wants to tell her. It hurts forever.