The warm body of Tommy climbs on top of me, lying heart to heart, an arrhythmic duo. I cuddle him to me, not too hard, not too much, not too needy, careful not to spook him. His body remains soft as it falls into sleep. I watch his eyelashes flutter as I gently caress his flushed cheeks. My body floods with a painful love. Take him and cut him out in little stars, and he will make the face of heaven so fine that all the world will be in love with night and pay no worship to the garish sun. Juliet’s words float on the air. I bury my nose in Tommy’s hair, which really is as fine as silk. Herbie is lying close, but not too close, his eyes trained on his real master, as if protecting him. ‘Sorry, Herbie, old boy.’ His tail thumps, an emblem of forgiveness. No wonder we use dogs in our lives the way we do. They make us feel better about ourselves than we ever deserve to.

6

All residual light has drained from the sky, and the damp is soaking through my cardigan, crawling its way inside my bones. I whisper in Tommy’s ear: ‘Come on, T, time to go home.’ It’s way past Mrs O’Malley’s bedtime, nothing to fear there, and yet the thought of going back to that house, where the reverberations of my actions of only a few hours ago still linger, makes my heart beat wildly. Tommy stirs. ‘Rat-a-tat-tat,’ he says, lifting himself off me.

We slink along the road, the three of us crouching in the shadow of the wall, Herbie still smaller than he should be. Tommy’s hand is holding tightly on to mine. ‘Ouchy tummy,’ he says. I bend down to kiss it. ‘All better soon.’ I know that feeling of not eating, then eating too much and too fast and the pains that follow. The two of them, Tommy and Herbie, polished off the three pizzas, and I can only imagine what kind of shape the dog’s intestines must be in: all twisted from stress and too much bread and cheese. My own must be pickled, in a permanent state of acid reflux, and yet I’ll have to add more to the mix tonight. It won’t be possible to get through the night otherwise; the shakes have already started. This time there are no dissenting voices, just a realisation that my hangover is too intense and the cravings too insistent. I finger the card with David Smythe’s number on it. Tomorrow – there’s always tomorrow.

As our house comes into view I see a car parked directly outside, blocking my access. Some people… A familiar spike of fury pushes its way through me, keys at the ready. Just as I’m about to sink the serrated edge into the metal, I realise this is not a stranger’s car. I place the keys back into my pocket and breathe deeply.

A man steps out. ‘Hello, young man.’