At least Tommy was never ignored. It’s the worst kind of punishment, being ignored. Reminds me of fifth class when Dana DC, the new girl with the blondest hair and whitest teeth, decided that I was Queen of the Untouchables, a lonely, strange, story-telling girl without a mother – ugh, what could be sadder than that? Silent protests were organised, military-style, when I’d enter the room and the girls would turn their backs, pretending not to hear anything I said. Since my unpopular speech in the meeting, I feel the same freeze from the guys in here.

I’m at the top of the queue. I dial; unexpectedly, someone answers.

Breathe, control, contain.

‘Dad?’ I sound like I’m eight, my voice caught in the back of my throat from the effort of straining to look up at him.

‘Hello, Sonya?’ Lara’s voice. ‘How are you doing?’

‘Is Dad there? I don’t have much time.’

‘Your father is out.’

‘Right. Is this not his mobile, his private number?’

‘Your father gave me permission to answer. He told me to ask you if you’d like a visit this weekend?’

‘Tommy?’

‘Not Tommy. Your father and I.’

‘Have you seen him?’

‘Your father has. He’s doing well. Lovely people, by all accounts.’

‘People – what people? Do you mean Mrs O’Malley?’

‘He’s with people better suited to caring for his needs.’

‘What? Who? Who? Where?’

‘I’m afraid I don’t know that, Sonya, but he’s being well looked after.’

‘If you had let Dad take him in in the first place, this wouldn’t have happened.’

‘Your father doesn’t have the energy for a toddler, you know that.’

Rage rises like a burning, beating thing – it might knock me out with the force of it. The wings are fluttering, the creatures frantic. No amount of swallowing can stop their flight.

I hear a sigh, the sigh of the long-suffering martyr.

‘Are you enjoying this?’ Then a white-out. I think I hear words spilling, words like ‘interfering, jealous, possessive cunting cow…’

The phone cuts dead. A hand taps me on the shoulder. I don’t turn, don’t react, just rest my head against the cool metal of the phone box. How can I continue to attend meetings where nothing is relatable, continue to pray to a God I cannot conceive of, continue to inhale my room-mates’ stench, their gossip, their noise, continue to fashion wood into shapes meant only for Tommy, if I cannot see him, talk to him, reassure him?

‘Love? You alright, love?’ The swarm thickens behind my eyes. My knees buckle, my head hits the lino.

When I wake, I’m lying on the ground, Jimmy standing above me.

‘Still detoxing this late into the game? Something not right there, not right.’

Am I? Detoxing from my son? Is this what this is, the roiling seas beneath my feet, Tommy’s voice inside my head, his eyes following me?

‘Have you been taking something?’

I find I can’t speak, or don’t want to.

‘Can you sit up? C’mon, now, you’re scaring me now, acting all cuckoo. I’m going to get help. Don’t move, now.’