My heart clutches. My heart. I have one. I can hear it in my ears. A creeping, tingling feeling of disgust crawls over me. What am I? What have I done? Herbie, darling, I’m sorry, is this what used to happen? I release my boy, his face red and creased, and watch as he crawls to Herbie and rests his head on the dog’s flanks. ‘Ok, Herbie, ok, you no worry, you me, me you, ok, ok, ok…’ he whispers to his friend, not looking at me.

I walk away, through the kitchen and into the yard. The air smells of summer rain. I lift my face to the cloud-scudded sky, fall to my knees. What I could have done back there. Shake my head to try to dislodge the tumbling thoughts. Feel like I’m drowning, water rushing in. Try to hold my breath, rock on my knees incanting, help, help, help, please help, not knowing who I’m beseeching, but someone, something, some force for good, something bigger than me, wiser, kinder. Mother? Father? Bigger than that, more benign, less prone to causing hurt.

In that moment back there she got me, that lethal bitch, and I didn’t even see her lurking.

I stand, legs unsteady, smooth down my skirt and rub away any trace of tears with my knuckles. I have to fight a desire to knock myself out, my fists clenched, containers for all my rage.

Back in the living room my boys are still crouched low, still talking to each other in their own gobbledegook language. The clock says seven and we never had lunch, but dinner is on our neighbour’s table. Normalise: steady, Sonya, steady. Tommy eyes me from his position of safety. I feel sure that if I took a step too close, Herbie would spring and attack me, protecting his rightful owner. ‘Herbie, old boy, I’m sorry. Mummy’s sorry. I don’t know what came over me.’ I keep my voice low and soft, being careful not to spook him. How I wish I had a treat to tempt him back to my side. I reach out my hand to my son.

‘Sorry, darling, sorry.’

Tommy stays where he is, still staring, as if he can see right inside me.

‘I was gone there, Mr T, and now I’m back. No need to be scared. Ok?’

He remains stock-still, sniffing the air around him.

‘It’s really me, Tommy. It’s me!’

He bends to kiss Herbie on his head. ‘Yaya gone, Hewbie, gone away, now she back. Bad fairy gone.’

What the hell did he see?

‘Bad fairy in the bad bottle, Yaya.’

‘Oh, Tommy, I think you’re confusing a fairy for a genie in the bottle. Remember Aladdin?’

‘No, Yaya, not genie, badblackmean fairy and she makes you do mean things.’

What has he just witnessed – a kind of possession? Has he seen this kind of a blackout before? I shake my head, my whole body, to rid it of the bad black meanness.