‘Ah yes, Fireman Sam’s fire engine.’

The irony of that isn’t lost on me. They’ve been indulging his obsession, it seems, feeding it.

‘Of course you can, dear. Can’t he, Mummy?’

‘Sure, yeah, sure.’

‘So, we’ll see you both here next Friday and you can go home to your furry friends, Tommy. Sound good?’

No matter what Tommy were to say now, the box is ticked and the boy is on his way home. I think of the barefoot boy on my street growing up; the boy in the cafe; Linda’s Mark, the abuser, as a boy; Jimmy, the adrenal-overloaded boy; the boy who watched his father throw himself into the canal; the boy who got pissed with his father at eleven, who shot up with his mother at thirteen; all the boys the world fashions into versions of hard, broken, swaggering men. My own father? David – as a boy?

And here is my boy, wearing the wrong clothes, living the wrong life in his flashing trainers and polyester tracksuit. He’ll never even know his own father.

We say our awkward goodbyes and hasten away from each other. The car can’t drive fast enough today. The whisperings start: Sup of me and I will offer thee succour, or something like that. Poetic licence.

The prospect of being at home scares me, but the prospect of a meeting scares me even more. I should go, but I can’t bear to be in a room full of intense, damaged adults bemoaning their pasts, handing their will and lives over to some fairy-tale deity. I know this isn’t fair, nor is it a realistic appraisal, but fuck it, it’s how I feel right now. Too much honesty, too much introspection. Thank God (He/She/It) for animal therapy: the two love-struck hairies provide great entertainment, Marmie holding the power, circling, swiping. The big old boy is driven to distraction. The phone flashes. Not in the mood. Stick the telly on, flick aimlessly, settle on a replay of Grand Designs, an episode I’ve seen with Tommy, where a couple make a house out of reclaimed tyres, which we both loved the idea of: ‘A house on wheels that won’t go anywhere.’ We both laughed until we cried. I allow myself to feel the full force of the five months of missing him, and it rains down on my body like punches.

37

David calls and calls again. Feck’s sake, not very perceptive for a so-called ‘counsellor’. I thought I had clearly articulated my need for space, and I thought he had heard me. He sends a text: Worried about you, am calling over. Something about that feels so wrong and yet so right. Perhaps this is my opportunity to let someone in, let someone care. Or it’s another opportunity to tell someone to fuck off. The usual tensions, and I can’t deny a frisson of excitement at the thought that he just won’t give up. Have I, at last, found that pair of arms that will hold me, even as I’m kicking out in a bratty tantrum?