‘Let us remember them at their best-with pride. Let us rejoice in having known them…’

Then it was over. Some of the crowd drifted away, but others remained, still gazing up, trying to picture the tragedy.

Alysa stayed longer than the rest because she couldn’t think what to do or where to go. Something inside her, that had been frozen for a long time, held her prisoner.

A young journalist approached her, microphone extended, speaking Italian.

‘Sono Inglese,’ she said quickly. ‘Non parle Italiano.’

He looked astonished at someone who could deny speaking Italian in such excellent Italian, and she added, ‘Those are all the words I know.’

He switched to English.

‘Can I ask why you are here? Did you lose someone?’

For a wild moment she wanted to cry out, ‘I came here to mourn the man I loved, but who betrayed me, abandoned me and our unborn child, a child he never even knew about, then died with his lover. She had a husband and child, but she deserted them as he deserted me. And I don’t know why I came here except that I couldn’t stay away’.

But she mustn’t say any of that. For a year she’d allowed nobody into her private grief, hiding behind steel doors that were bolted and barred against the world, lest anyone suspect not only her desolation but also her terrible fear that, if she let go, she might never regain control over the torrents of grief and anger.

Let us rejoice in having known them…

‘No, I didn’t lose anyone,’ she said. ‘I’m just curious.’

He was a nice lad. He gave a rueful sigh.

‘So you can’t point anyone out to me? Nobody wants to talk, and the only one I recognise is Drago di Luca.’

She jumped at the name. ‘Is he here?’

‘He’s the man over there, scowling.’