Friday morning. Eight forty-one. The kettle clicked. The flat was quiet. Emma had gone into The Athletic offices for a Friday editorial; the Sakho piece had run with a photograph of the corner-flag moment and her phone had been buzzing since six.
My wallet was on the counter where I'd left it after getting up at five for tea.
The card from Streatham was on top of it.
I'd taken it out at one in the morning to look at it. Put it down. Got up at three. Looked at it again. Put it down. Got up at five. Made tea. Looked at it. Put it down.
I picked it up now and slid it into the inside pocket of my coat.
I checked my phone for the first time at quarter to nine. There were eighty-seven messages on the family thread. Mum had sent eleven voicemails, none longer than thirty seconds, the first at twenty past ten last night when Sakho headed the corner in. I played the most recent.
