He says nothing for a while, just presses his nose against the window, then rubs his nose with his sleeve. I don’t correct him.

‘She must be beeootiful like you. Does my guarding angel look like me?’

‘He or she can look like anyone you wish.’

‘My dada,’ he says, sticking his thumb back in his mouth and staring out the window intently. His face has closed down.

‘A big tall handsome angel, like your dada. What a good idea. I might borrow him sometime.’

He half-bites down on his thumb, which looks raw and red, a welt at the bend in the knuckle. Enough talk of the deceased hero of a father. Tommy will never know that Howard didn’t want him, was true to his word, abandoned him in my womb. News of my pregnancy was met with: ‘You’re making a terrible mistake, Sonya, you’re not mother material… and your career, what will happen to your career?’ An aspiring actor, Howard had enough ambition for both of us, and no intention of letting an unplanned pregnancy get in the way. I start to sing, ‘Old MacDonald had a farm and on that farm he had some monkeys, eee, aye, eee, aye, oh, and on that farm he had some tigers…’ Tommy pretends he’s not listening but when I make really bad monkey sounds he starts to chuckle in spite of himself, and when I make a monkey-lion-gibber-roar he bursts into uncontrolled laughter, aping me, ‘OohoohoohooheeeahahahROAR!’

The rain gathers in intensity and falls heavily on the car, the wipers screeching back and forth, barely creating any clearing in my view. The car swerves and slides on the wet roads – I’m pretty sure the tyres are bald or flat or both – but the impetus to get home to my bedtime routine is pushing me on at great speed. ‘Wheee, Yaya, wheee…’ Tommy shouts from the back, his eyes sparkling, seeking out the danger. He can sense it, Herbie too, I can tell from the way his ears are pinned back. ‘Ok, boys… hang on!’ I flick my eyes to the rear-view mirror to make sure that Tommy’s seatbelt is fastened, and when I see it is I put my foot to the floor. The car screeches, Herbie yelps, a new-puppy-sounding cry, and Tommy starts clapping madly. ‘Faster, Yaya, faster!’

Speed helps, I’ve always known this, in whatever form it comes: running used to do it, sprinting, then amphetamines, anything that sped me up helped me outrun the voices. The kick of performing did it – let me step outside of myself, my only awareness the pulsing of blood in my throat, wrists, veins popping – and dancing, swimming, fucking, oblivion. Roberto taught me the feeling of speed behind a wheel, usually some kind of Ferrari. Granted, this old jalopy can’t exactly break speed barriers, but it helps – the car shaking, loose parts rattling, the engine roaring – it creates an illusion of winning, of outsmarting the shadows, outrunning the curses. Anything that lifts me out of myself, even for a sweet blessed moment, even the blaring of the horn in the opposite lane, the car swerving to avoid me. My breath is caught high in my chest, and I feel turned on, like when Roberto would take me in a public toilet. I catch a glimpse of my son in the mirror, jumping up and down in his seat, rocking against the belt, testing its limits.