Good question. He’d quite like to know himself. It’s a memory he doesn’t want to go near, that moment after the blast, the pure rage strong enough to make all this. He shies away from it inside, but stands stock still, watching Keats make his childish little twirling gesture by his head.

‘Gene? Is it...coming...back to you, can you help the lady out?’ Keats trails off into a laugh, the picture of enjoyment.

He doesn’t move. But she’s looking at him, and he owes her what he knows, doesn’t he?

‘It’s, uh...somewhere where we go to sort ourselves.... Coppers.’