I hold open the back door, and he climbs in, clutching his new case. Try to buckle him up, but he still won’t let the bag go, settling it on his lap like a pet, so I have to stretch the belt over it. Remember to do this: it’s a good start. I turn on the radio, fiddle around till I find something ‘poppy’, inane and upbeat – I’m not in the mood to be ignored. Put my pedal to the floor, hoping to get a reaction.

‘Wheee, Tommy, see? Yaya’s still the fastest motor racer you know!’

He sticks his thumb in his mouth and looks out the window.

‘Fancy a creamy ice?’ I shout over the music, even though it’s entirely inappropriate in mid-November.

He pushes his nose against the windowpane, squashes it. I sing along, ‘Ooh, I’m your baby, baby, baby’, until I look back and see he has his fingers in his ears. I stop, feeling slapped. Turn the radio up to block any stinging words that might come flying out of my mouth.

‘Home sweet home, T,’ I say as we round the bend into the terrace, half expecting claps and squeals of excitement, though not really. He’s just not going to give me an inch. I park the car on the kerb, open the front door, and Herbie and Marmie bound out to piddle all over the dead flowerbeds. Tommy climbs out, still clinging to his ridiculous wheelie case, pressing it to his chest. He looks around, dazed, as if blinded by the light after days in a black cell. Herbie goes to him, then backs away. Tommy doesn’t engage.

‘Tommy, meet Marmie.’

‘That’s not the kitten. Too big,’ he says, before he walks up the path and into the house.

When I manage to corral the other two back inside, I find Tommy in the living room, unpacking and folding his clothes. He places them neatly at the end of the couch. Who taught him to do that? ‘Want to watch some Jeremy Kyle, Tommy?’ Stick the telly on, tune in to the raucous shouting, regardless of his answer. Need to pretend things can be the way they were. Herbie is sniffing the air around Tommy, looking at me then back at Marmie. Yes, Herbie, he does smell different. A persistent tickle in my throat brings on a coughing fit so acute I double over. Tommy doesn’t even glance up from his folding, concentration intense. When I used to cough before, he’d be by my side, stroking my hair.

I sit on the couch and pat the surface beside me, inviting Herbie and Marmie up. Tommy finishes his folding, looks at the three of us sitting with space between us and climbs on to the armchair on his own. He never sat in that chair before. Neither of us did – it’s a lumpy, ugly, broken old thing, and I determine in that instant to get rid of it.

‘Anyone hungry?’

I get up, not expecting a reply, turn on the grill, take out the fish fingers, shout into the living room: ‘Marmie loves fishies too, Tommy. We all do.’ I stand staring at the grill, not seeing anything, until it becomes apparent that smoke is spilling from its mouth. Fuck’s sake, Sonya. Hear my own voice, my father’s and David’s all rolled into one. Reach in to lift the blackened fish by hand, scorching the tips of my fingers, throw it on a plate, and take the smoking grill pan into the yard. Sense Tommy in the doorway.