‘My guarding angel sat by my bed sometimes when you were away.’

‘What did he or she look like?’ I tread gently, aware this is the first time he’s spoken of our time apart.

‘Sometimes like Herbie.’

‘Do you hear that, Herbie?’

The dog’s tail thumps on the kitchen tiles.

‘And sometimes like Gandad and that pizza-man.’

‘Giant versions?’

‘No, people-size.’

‘Oh. Do you think they look alike, T?’

‘They have the same voices.’

‘Yes, they do sound similar.’

‘I hope Gandad comes to see me soon. He pwomised.’

Did he? I find that almost unbearable. Who makes false promises to someone so little? I serve him his pizza, which he eats methodically, chewing carefully. I make myself swallow two slices.

‘Tommy?’ I speak pretend-casually, not wanting to spook him. ‘What did you set on fire in Mrs O’Malley’s house?’

‘Nothing, Yaya!’

‘And in Clare’s?’

‘Only Mr Candle and Ms Matches.’

‘And did you try to set the house on fire?’

He looks at me as if I’ve truly lost my mind, left it somewhere else, as if only someone spectacularly stupid could ask such a thing.

‘But did you want to?’ I can’t help myself.

He ignores me, bends down to pat Herbie.

‘Just going to the loo, Tommy,’ I say.

He doesn’t answer.

I close the bathroom door behind me and look in the mirror, see a blur looking back at me, which is not unusual. What is unusual is a bar of carbolic soap still in its wrapping. I’d never buy that shit. Wash your mouth and your thoughts out, Sonya. A disembodied voice.

‘Yaya?’ Tommy shouts from outside the door. Was I talking out loud again?

‘It’s ok, Mr T. Just doing a poops,’ I say, hoping to make him laugh, but then I remember our previous open-door policy. Jesus, the booze really lowered the boundaries.

‘All done!’ I say as I come back out.

‘Stinky-stink, Yaya!’ He waves his hand in front of his nose.

I pinch mine. ‘Poopy-poop-poop-poop.’

A quiet laugh builds inside him. I can see the effort it’s taking him to push it down. I tickle him under the arms. He explodes, tears running down his face. I’m not sure if he’s laughing or crying; probably both.

‘Tommy, would you like to tell me something about your time with Clare? Anything?’

‘Poopy-pooppooppooop!’

‘Did Clare teach you to light a match?’

‘Stinkystinkstinkstinkstink!’

‘How about school? Are you happy to go back?’

‘The colour of seagulls,’ he says.

‘Are you talking about the clouds, or the building?’

‘Grey white grey.’

‘No wonder you’re so good at drawing! Will we get our colour book out, my little artist?’

He almost bounces on his heels with excitement. ‘Yes, Yaya.’

‘You know how it’s your birthday in ten days, Tommy? Will we have a party?’

He goes to the art drawer at the bottom of the bockety Ikea chest of drawers, which I didn’t bother to assemble properly, and takes out crayons, glitter, glue and a scrapbook.