‘Wheee!’ I say.

‘Wheee,’ he repeats back, distinctly unimpressed.

The animals love them, barking and squealing, until one lands on Marmie and is savaged. It pops loudly; Tommy laughs, and jumps on the other one. I don’t feel like blowing up any more.

‘How about musical statues?’

He looks unsure.

‘I’ll put some music on and every time it stops we have to freeze, ok?’

I turn the radio on, but the Billie Holiday CD blasts out: ‘And after all is said and done / To think that I’m the lucky one / I can’t believe that you’re in love with me…’

Shit. My son is frozen alright, terrified. That bloody song hurtling us both back to that moment when I was taken over, possessed by a terrible need, when I almost suffocated him with that need. I quickly switch to radio mode, and fiddle around to find something benign, alight on bland retro pop, a nasal high-pitched girly voice, singing about spinning right round, baby... I open my arms, offer him my hands. He doesn’t take them.

He walks away into the living room, opens the art drawer and gets the glitter, brings it back into the kitchen. He removes the lid, sniffs, then closes it again. My heart is hammering. I hold my hand out, he places the tube into it, then I open the bin and deposit the tiny winking eyes into it.

The whispers start, yet there is something else there too, a stillness, space to hold it all.

‘Messy stuff, Mr T.’

His head moves up, down, up, down. I turn off the music. We look at each other.

‘Is it dark enough yet?’

He opens his eyes, looks through the window. ‘Hmmm-mm.’

I get the box of matches, offer it to him. He studies it a moment, then shakes his head.

‘It’s fine with me here.’

He takes the box in his hands, pushes his thumb against the lower lid, opens it, stares, his body trembling.

‘But Clare said it’s dangerous.’

‘It’s ok, I promise, it’s safe with me here. You know how to, right?’

He nods, removes a matchstick, holds it in front of his face, stops breathing.

He strikes, his cheeks flush, his pupils dilate. He inhales deeply, we both do. A rush.

I hold a sparkler in front of him. We move our hands towards each other and touch the match to the sparkler, which ignites, sparks. And another one.

‘Into the yard, quick.’

We are both jazzed by the crackle, the sizzle, the sheer beauty of the things as they dance in the air, arcing and weaving, seemingly of their own volition, our own hands chasing them, the sparklers’ light reflected in his eyes. We dance to a soundtrack of the animals’ barking and mewling. My imp is desperately trying to make an appearance. You are not fucking invited, not welcome here anymore, love!

‘The other one, Yaya.’

‘The wheel?’

He nods, his eyes glassy.

‘Ok, darling, and then bed, ok?’