He moves to the plate of fish fingers, lifts one and nibbles the outer edge.

‘Tommy, don’t, it’s probably still raw inside.’

He swallows. ‘Burn.’

‘Yes, Tommy, that’s right. When does Yaya ever do it any other way?’

He sniffs the air, inhales, closes his eyes. He nods, like he’s satisfied with what he smells, then returns to the lounge humming a theme tune I’ve never heard before. I follow him, not sure how to play this. Herbie jumps off the couch and moves towards him, tail circling then curling under as Tommy studiously ignores him. Tommy settles himself back on the chair and surveys the room as if he’s never seen it before, looks at the animals in a way that makes me think of the boy in the cafe. He’s only five, Sonya, only five in a week’s time. Maybe we should have a birthday party, invite everyone we know. Who – exactly? Clare, Maureen? Probably not protocol. Father? David?

How about his little school friends? School is non-negotiable, Maureen was pretty clear about that. I wonder could I track down that fire-blowing guy I used to date – imagine Tommy’s excitement! I look at him pretending to be engrossed in the TV and resolve to give him the best party ever, with fireworks, sparklers and Catherine wheels. There’s something about those spinning circles of fire, some trace of a memory as a child, a giddiness, being held high on my father’s shoulders, a sensation of belonging to him, to the world. Fire did that for me too, burned the rest of the shit away. I guess a sort of purification. Try to remember more, but it slips away from me, leaving me wide open to the pain of this reunion that has us all acting so cold and wary of each other. Tommy’s rejection of Herbie cuts to the core of me. ‘A God-shaped hole.’ I hear the men’s voices from the meetings, and it lands.

39

I call the rehab centre’s public line, which is engaged, of course, leave the phone on redial – pick up, someone, anyone, I don’t care who, just someone who knows what this feels like. Eventually some bored receptionist answers, tells me they’re all in rosary.

‘This is an emergency,’ I say. ‘Page Jimmy Maloney, please.’

‘Call back between five thirty and six thirty tomorrow evening.’ The phone cuts out.

Perhaps we should eat? I think of one of the slogans bandied about in the meetings: ‘HALT – hungry angry lonely tired’. I literally snorted the first time I heard it; now, though, I wonder. A full belly can soothe. I make peanut-butter sandwiches but have no appetite for this kind of fuel. Tommy eats only the centre, leaving the crusts. A giddy, restless feeling rises in me, creatures stirring. ‘Walkies,’ I say, hoping to deflect. Tommy goes to the spot by the door, takes down the leads and hands them to me. The animals wail as if they’ve never seen the outside world.