I look at Tommy, hand the twenty-euro note over the counter.

The boy takes it, holding it away from him as if contaminated, and puts it in the till, handing me back fifty cents.

‘Keep the change,’ I say.

He puts the order through and backs away from me. I study him. He looks better, the muscles suit him, though they did come on rather quickly. Where is this boy heading? I think of the man in the meeting who watched his father throw himself into the canal on his fortieth birthday.

He speaks low: ‘Glad to see you’re ok, you know, after that day ‘n’ all…’

I pretend I don’t know what he’s talking about, but then add, ‘You’re looking well yourself.’

He nods curtly, calls out the teenagers’ order, which does in fact include garlic dough balls, and I wonder what else was I was right about. The porn, no doubt, the vicious games, probably, but this boy and the canal? I look at the boy’s solid physique, the fact of his holding down a job, earning money, and can’t help feeling hopeful.

He hands me the box, lowers his voice again and says, ‘God bless you,’ as I leave.

I don’t think it was ironic.

43

‘Last one in is a pooper.’

‘Pooper scooper,’ Tommy says.

‘Want to join us, Mrs O’M?’ I shout when I see our treacherous neighbour peering at us from behind the safety of her well-pruned hedge.

‘No, Yaya, not Witchy Mary,’ Tommy says.

‘It’s ok, Mr T, she wouldn’t dare.’

Just what did the ‘little mite’ endure in that house, and how many nights was he there before he was moved on? I won’t allow this thought to take hold, burrow down.

‘Hello, Tommy,’ Mrs O’Malley says. ‘So lovely to see you all back home together.’

You bitch. I’m filled with the shape, the taste, the smack of the word, which sounds satisfactorily like it should. I grab Tommy by the arm and pull him through the front door.

‘Ow, hurt.’

‘Sorry, Mr T. Sorry. We all need to eat.’

‘Yes, Yaya. Aminals too.’

‘Yes, Tommy, I know that.’

Tommy is watching me closely. He opens the fridge, sniffing, eyes darting anxiously around.

‘Owange juice, Yaya?’

I pull a bottle of MiWadi from the cupboard. His tense body visibly relaxes. Jesus, is this how it will play out from now on?

‘Don’t forget Marmie and Herbie’s yackety-yack.’

‘After us, T. I’ll feed them after us.’

‘No, now. They’re stahving. And they need water.’

‘Here.’ I hand him the bowl, lift him up, careful not to hold him too close, turn the kitchen tap on.

‘Enough, Yaya,’ he says, the bowl overflowing. ‘Yaya?’

‘Yes, darling. I’m right here.’

‘You don’t sound blurry.’

Christ. ‘Thank you.’ I articulate the words carefully. Can I do this? ‘Do what exactly, Sonya, what?’ Something is missing.

‘Who are you talking to, Yaya?’

I didn’t know I’d spoken that aloud.

‘My guardian angel,’ I say, trying to smile.