The hustle and bustle of the pub immediately fell silent once I’d raised my voice. All eyes were locked on us, waiting for Poppy’s response. She was more of a crier than a fighter, and I don’t know why I picked on her so readily. My emotions got the better of me, and her ridiculous comment had tipped me over the edge.

“I’m just saying he can help—”

“No, Poppy, this is not the time to be preaching. My husband is dead. Your brother is dead. He died in this pathetic town, and we’re never going to see him again.”

Poppy, shocked by what I’d said, elected to walk away from me instead of trying to respond. I have to say, it was the right decision. Yvonne replaced Poppy in her position in front of me. She was clearly going to use my outburst to cause a scene. I downed the rest of the whiskey left in the glass, waiting for the inevitable.

“Come on, love, let’s go outside for a minute,” Yvonne said softly, ushering me outside. She walked me through the staring mourners, opening the door and signalling me to step through it. I went outside and exhaled loudly, expecting a loud argument.

“What now?” I asked abruptly.

“I know what it feels like. When we lost Harry’s father, I felt like my whole world collapsed. Whatever you need to do to try and move on from that, do it. But shouting at Poppy won’t help.”

I was shocked. Yvonne was actually being nice, or at least something that resembled nice. The sheer personality change I had just witnessed before my very eyes was strong enough to make the anger evaporate instantly. I’d never seen this side of her. Maybe she did have genuine empathy and wasn’t the heartless mother-in-law I’d always pegged her for. We’d barely exchanged any niceties since I’d met Harry, but maybe she did understand how I was feeling. She’d lost her son, after all, and I kept forgetting that.

“I know, but she always comes in with that psychic bull—” I started.

“And don’t reject anything that could help you,” Yvonne interrupted.

“Fine. You’re right. I’ll tell Poppy that I’m sorry.”

“You don’t need to. Come on, let’s go back inside.”

“Give me a minute. I need some fresh air.”

“Whenever you're ready.”

Yvonne left me alone, and I looked up and down the streets aimlessly. I never understood the allure of this place. Sure, it had its charm in the summer, maybe. If you visited when it was warm and people flocked here to see the beach, it was a totally different place. But we were in the off-season, and Filey had returned to hibernation. In every direction, you could see a guesthouse or a pub, each donning a brightly illuminated ‘Vacancies’ sign in the window. Even though I detested it, I did feel closer to Harry here. I could almost see him stumbling out of the pub with his friends, and it made me feel closer to him.

“How’re you feeling, Amelia?” A man emerging from the pub asked.

It was Steve, Harry’s best friend. I hadn’t seen him for at least a few years, and I barely recognised him. He had really packed on the pounds since and lost quite a bit more of his hair. My skin used to crawl whenever he was near me. Around Filey he was known to be a bit of a lech and for not being able to keep his hands to himself. Harry always defended him to the hilt, though, and I never could see why.

“Why do people keep asking that?” I replied.

“Sorry. It’s hard to know what to say. Great turnout, though. Harry would’ve loved this.”

“Yeah, he certainly would.”

“You should come back in; we’re swapping stories about Harry,” he suggested, touching my arm gently.

I wondered whether I should go back inside or not, but I knew deep down that I had to. Part of me just wanted to go home, and for Harry to be waiting for me when I arrived. But it wasn’t home anymore, not without him there. Against my better judgment, I reluctantly returned inside and immediately saw Poppy weeping in the corner like a wounded animal. I didn’t regret what I had said in principle, but I suppose I could have said it more delicately. She had as much of a right to grieve as I did.

“Poppy, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean what I said,” I tenderly said.

“I know you didn’t. I’m not upset with you. It’s just all the emotions coming at once.”

“Listen, if you think that medium will help, I’ll give it a shot. Thank you for trying to help.”

Poppy smiled slightly. “I’ll text you his number.”

Yvonne heard the amicable exchange and almost smiled at me. Poppy rose to her feet to give me a gripping hug, which I clumsily accepted. She took out her phone to send the number, and mine beeped.

“There you go,” Poppy said.

“Thanks,” I replied.

“Right, come on. Let’s have a drink for Harry. He wouldn’t want to see us all bickering like this,” Poppy smiled, putting her arm around me.

“You’re right.”

And she was right. Harry loved his sister; she was the one member of his family that he had a decent relationship with. They went through a lot together, and with their mother essentially being absent their entire childhood, he badly needed that bond. Harry wouldn’t have accepted a bad word said about Poppy, even if she was talking about spiritualism or psychic powers.

I don’t remember much about the evening; I’d gotten myself into a bit of a state by the end. I thought it was expected of me, but I did get carried away somewhat. The booze did little to make me forget, although it was nice to swap stories and remember Harry for the man he was before everything that happened. The pub emptied slowly, leaving only the closest family and friends. Eventually, we all parted ways, and I vaguely remember stumbling back to my guesthouse at around midnight. Yvonne did invite me to stay the night at their house, but regardless of the fragile ceasefire I couldn’t bear the thought of sleeping in Harry’s old room or under the same roof as Yvonne.

I regretted not accepting her offer bitterly. I’d underestimated just how alone I would feel sitting in that room at the guesthouse. I sat on the edge of the bed, scowling at the walls. That day was the first day I had truly accepted that Harry was gone, and I’d barely made it through. I remember thinking that every day after would feel like that, which I found utterly soul-destroying. Would I ever feel any better than this? I remembered what Poppy had said about James in my drunken stupor, and in a moment of weakness, I decided to send him a text.

James, this is Amelia, Poppy’s sister-in-law. She said you could help me.

As soon as I clicked send, I instantly wanted to take it back. Harry would be laughing his head off right now if he had seen me do it. But Yvonne was right; even though it was most likely nonsense, I shouldn’t reject anything that could make me feel better, and there was an admittedly slim chance that there could be some truth in it. I fell backwards onto the bed, and the alcohol-induced headache was already starting to rear its ugly head. I dizzily tried to get to sleep, but thanks to the combination of the unfamiliar room spinning and the deafening silence of Filey, sleep felt almost impossible. Just as I was about to defy the odds and finally drop off, my phone lit up and produced a single beep. I fumbled to reach it on the bedside table, my eyes squinted in the dark, trying to decipher the message.

Amelia, I’m so sorry for your loss, but I can see your husband’s death wasn’t an accident.

II

THE FOOL

AMELIA

I glared at the text message, which was instantly sobering. Any hope that I held of falling asleep was shattered immediately. What did he mean it wasn’t an accident? How could he know that? The longer I looked at the message, the more I felt sick, the kind of visceral nausea that usually accompanies a shock of this magnitude. I’d texted him on a drunken whim, looking for some bland words of encouragement or an off-the-shelf sentiment. I wasn’t expecting a response so soon, let alone something so ominous. I remained staring at the blinding screen of my phone, my thumbs hovering over it as if poised to respond but unable to form any words to text him back with.

He couldn’t have known anything about Harry’s death. It wasn’t possible. It was simply a wild stab in the dark, trying to bait me into some kind of emotional response. The nausea subsided and was quickly replaced by outrage. I didn’t know this man, and he didn’t know me. What gives him the right to spout such unsolicited nonsense to a grieving widow? Poppy had clearly spoken to him, so he knew a little about my situation, but to start sending messages like that was a step too far. I only started replying out of sheer anger that he dared to speak about Harry’s death like that. He was clearly spewing rubbish.

What are you talking about?

James?

How dare you say that.

Answer me.

James?

Roughly ten minutes had passed without a response, when my rage built. It was like James was playing with me. The dots appeared on my screen, indicating James was typing, but they kept stopping and restarting. Eventually, they stopped altogether, and I was left looking at my frantic, unanswered messages. I must have waited an hour for a response at least, but eventually I fell asleep, still tightly gripping my phone in my hand.

I woke up the next morning, and the hangover had hit me like a freight train. Every drop of moisture in my mouth had evaporated overnight, an unfortunate but expected effect of drinking spirits until midnight. I staggered to the bathroom, desperately in search of water to quench my intense thirst. I looked into the mirror; I’d never seen myself in such an appalling state. What little makeup I was wearing the day before was smeared all down my cheeks, my normally straight hair pointing in every direction. I splashed the cold water onto my face to try and bring myself back to life. Harry rarely got hungover; he had this ritual where he would drink two bottles of water before bed, and he claimed it stopped hangovers. I only had to look at a glass of wine incorrectly, and I’d feel rough the next day. Harry would be up at dawn, whistling and frying up bacon and eggs. I missed that.