I dress carefully, force myself to eat toast and a banana, talk to Herbie and Marmie, telling them to be good, to be kind to each other. Now I know that Marmie is well able to hold her own and would probably win out in any scrap, I’m ok leaving them, just. I still can’t get certain morbid imaginings out of my head: the kitten in his big mouth, or the dog’s eyes scratched out.

34

I pull up outside the shiny building among the dilapidated flats with plenty of time to spare. Adjust my driver’s mirror, look at myself, see, yet don’t see. My image has always been a kind of a blur, only ever reflected back at me through other people’s eyes. My impression of myself is as of a stranger appraising me, not too kindly. Flip the mirror back.

Maureen is there to meet me at reception. How I want to lay my head on her ample bosom, have my hair stroked. I shake my head and stamp my feet as imperceptibly as I can – disturb the patterns, ground their flight. Breathe in: a sacred pause.

‘Ok, Sonya?’

‘Fine, good, thanks, all good.’

‘Tommy’ll be here in a few minutes. I’ll spend some time alone with him first, then you’ll get to see him.’

‘On my own, or…?’

‘I’ll be in the room, just as a formality. Follow me.’

I’m mesmerised by the swaying bulk of flesh that moves with such assuredness, such grace. It’s as if different bulges of her are talking to each other, all nodding their heads in calm agreement. In her office I’m asked to blow, and then to pee into the container. Tea is offered, and the phone rings.

‘He’s arrived. Ok to wait here for a few minutes?’

I nod, clamp one hand over the other. I sit down, as I’m scared my legs might go spastic, give me away.

‘Just breathe, Sonya. I know it’s hard.’

She walks towards the door, then turns. ‘Oh, and Sonya. You’re the mother here, remember?’

And she’s gone, trailing shame in her wake.

A knock on the door, and a voice cuts in: ‘Ok to follow me?’

Already? A small, wiry, grey-haired lurcher of a woman smiles tightly. ‘Just in here.’ The door is opened and there he is: tiny – so much smaller than I remember him, sitting at the children’s table with its purple plastic chairs and bright pink table. He’s wearing clothes I’ve never seen before: a little sailor top and blue corduroys. Somebody has decided on the ‘cute’ look.

‘Hi, Tommy!’

Maureen is sitting as discreetly as her bulk will allow in a far corner of the room by the window. She has a file on her knees and is looking through papers, or pretending to. Tommy doesn’t answer me, and I can immediately sense I’m right back to where I was at the beginning of our visit in rehab. I should have brought something familiar from home, but what? He was never a kid that was into teddies, seeing as he had a big, live one by his side.