Standing up, Harry power-cycles the last part of his route home. A sense of speed and freedom balloons inside him. He is a speedway driver roaring to victory, a pilot landing a plane, a motorcyclist weaving between stationary cars, outsmarting an entire road of clogged traffic. He flies past the green, the library, the Royal Mail delivery office, and screeches to a halt by the shabby house on the corner. He pauses a moment, panting. Across the road, next door to the Royal Mail delivery office, there is the thump and cry of builders at work, creating a row of posh new houses next to the green. Harry thinks briefly of the people who might buy such a house. They float, like ghosts before his eyes – young professionals, young families, rich retirees.

He rubs his eyes and pushes open the gate, which barely swivels on its rusted hinge, and wheels his bike towards the front door. Either side of the short path, there are scrappy tufts of grass strewn with the remains of his younger self – a pram, a discarded cot, a half-buried baby bath, its enamel cracked and discoloured. Harry sighs. It strikes him that he lives in two different worlds – the one Virginia and some of his friends occupy, with its space and order, and this one, where the only thing you can be sure of is chaos. He leans his bike against the wall between the window and the door, draws a breath, goes in.

‘Is that you, Hazza?’ shrieks a voice.

‘Yep. Just going to get ready for school, Mum. Might make a cuppa. Do you want one?’

‘Thank God! I’m starving. Make me breakfast too, will you?’

‘I’ve had mine,’ Harry calls up. ‘Virginia made me bacon!’

‘Lucky bastard!’ The shriek turns warm, almost indulgent, but that doesn’t last. ‘Bring me toast, would you? And a strong brew. I’ve got such a head on me…’

Harry slings his rucksack on the sofa, where it lands with a soft clunk between a pile of washing and carrier bags of empty wine bottles. He wonders whether it will always be like this – him working every hour he isn’t at school to earn money and look after his mum’s erratic needs. An image of his gran comes to mind. He pushes it away quickly.

The voice shrieks again. ‘Did you get paid today?’