Drive to the Spar, buy a cheese sandwich, should be ok, an apple, Tayto crisps – are they ok? – and speed back to the school. I pull into the grounds this time, take in the small cluster of prefabs, insignificant and flimsy, so like the sanatorium and the drying-out wing in the rehab. How many of these little people will make their way there later in life? Some, but not Tommy, I’ll make sure of that. ‘He’s young enough to bounce back from this’ – Jimmy’s voice rings in my ears.

‘Ok, guys, you hang tight. Won’t be long.’ I speak through the car window, press my nose against it. I’m sure I can see Herbie do his dolphin smile. I’m winning him back.

I press the bell on the door and wait. A disappointed-looking woman with a sunken mouth opens the door. Hear the guys: ‘If life gives you lemons…’ I know I’m smirking.

‘Hello, can I help you?’

‘I’m Tommy Moriarty’s mother. Here’s his lunch.’

The woman takes the bag, holding it a safe distance from her body.

‘What class is he in?’

‘I don’t know… The littlest. He’s four, five next week.’

I’m jabbering, feeling judged. Crap mother with her cheap Spar lunch, late.

‘Oh, is that little Tommy who arrived on his own this morning? We were trying to call you.’

‘No, you must be mistaken. I drove him here myself.’

The woman stares at me, really stares, probing. I look away.

‘What time is he finished?’

‘Do you have any ID?’ the woman asks, looking suspiciously at the bag.

‘Excuse me?’

‘Just something to tell me you are who you say you are.’

The woman continues with her scoping, which is starting to feel invasive. This is exactly the feeling I had in the days after my mother’s death, when the whole school’s eyes were on me, pinning me, a rare and dangerous species. I stick my tongue into the healing welt in my cheek. Breathe, ground, pray.

‘I’ll go home, get my passport,’ I say. Ms Sanity in the starring role.

The woman nods, all the while burning me with her magnified glare.

I turn to go. ‘Make sure you give Tommy his lunch, ok?’

The woman says, ‘Did you not get the list of acceptable food?’ I won’t turn around, will myself on, back to the car, to the sanctuary of the animals. ‘We don’t allow crisps, certainly not Tayto.’ The voice chases me down. ‘The sandwiches are fine, though.’

I pull up outside my front door and see Mrs O’Malley outside, watering her plants. In November? Does the Man Above not piddle down enough? Rage rips through me, grabs me by the throat, rattles me around a bit.

When I open the door, the smell of bleach is overpowering. Did I leave the top off, let it spill?

‘Hello, Sonya.’

He’s wearing the frilly apron that Tina gave me. Is he trying to be ironic?

Herbie and Marmie follow me in, tails down, hackles up.