When Jack was sad, he preferred to be alone. It wasn’t hiding, as everyone always knew where he was; he was just unavailable. An invisible sign appeared: ‘GONE TO LUNCH’. At least that’s how Molly would put it.

‘Where’s me da?’ one of the kids would ask.

‘Gone to lunch,’ she’d say.

‘What’s up with him now?’

‘Ah, who knows, but leave the auld fella to it.’

He always found a project to keep people at bay when he was gone to lunch. He’d read a book or categorise his old albums; he’d tear down a wall or build a shed. In said shed he’d build replica ships in glass bottles or paint clay sculptures – anything to be alone.

When he and Molly returned home, she took off her shoes and sat at the kitchen table thumbing the huge stack of folders they had filled with possible drug trials that would accept Rabbit. It was folly. Rabbit’s consultant made shit of every one. ‘They’ll take your money and her last comfort. She’s dying,’ he’d said. Now she was gone and the files were still piled high on the Hayeses’ kitchen table. Jack couldn’t watch his wife sit and stare into the middle distance anymore. He mentioned Rabbit’s childhood photographs as an excuse to sneak off to the attic. He pulled down the ladder, turned on the attic light, riffled through boxes and found something unexpected: his own diaries from the forties right up to the mid-nineties when he’d just stopped writing, he couldn’t remember why. There they all were, year after year. Rabbit would be there, amongst those pages. In his diaries, Rabbit lived. He picked one of the boxes and sat down on the beanbag before opening it and reading to himself. There you are, love.

Hiya, Da.

I’m reading about when you were four and you barked like a dog every time the postman knocked on the door. Do you remember?

He used to shove the letters in my mouth, rub me head and call me Rover, he heard her say.

That’s right, love, he chuckled to himself.

By 3.30 that morning Jack Hayes was officially gone to lunch.

Chapter Five: Juliet

Chapter Five

Juliet

JULIET GOT OUT OF her mother’s bed at 3 p.m. Davey was sleeping by then, overcome by exhaustion. She got dressed and snuck outside. She didn’t want to alert him to the fact that she was up and about. He would only want to feed her, rub her, hug her or talk to her. She didn’t want food or comfort; she just wanted to move for a bit. She walked down the street and her twelve-year-old friend and neighbour, Kyle, must have been watching from his window because he was cycling by her side within seconds.

‘I heard,’ he said.

Juliet kept walking.

‘I’m sorry.’