I hold my hand out and he doesn’t take it. I smile at him, gently, I hope. Come back to my orbit, little man. I want to stick my tongue out and roll the sides off each other but know how that would look.

‘No more than thirty minutes. We have to get him home.’

Did he really just use that word?

‘Tell your mummy about the lovely lady you’re staying with. Clare, isn’t that right?’

My tongue worries the inside of my already bitten cheek.

‘Half-hour tops,’ he says before turning, Lara’s arm snaking around his lower back, as if, without her support, he might topple over.

‘Would you like to see a giant statue?’ I ask, careful not to demand too much too soon, even though my body is craving to hold him close, feel his heartbeat next to mine. Rat-a-tat-tat.

We walk. Single file.

‘This is Mary,’ I say when we get to the oversized statue in the grotto. ‘You know… the mother of Jesus?’

I almost bow my head. He looks blankly at the carved stone figure. Of course he hasn’t a clue; I hardly prioritised his religious instruction.

‘Look at her robin-redbreast cheeks and lips!’ I don’t mention the flaking, peeling paint job, which makes her mouth look as if it’s bleeding. I don’t mention the whole mother-of-God stuff, certainly not the Immaculate Conception stuff, sure to bamboozle him and fill his head with nightmares, as it did mine.

‘Hey, were there any lady giants like this one in the Land of Nod?’

He shrugs, kicks at the ground. He tracks a large black beetle as it makes its lumbering way across the path.

‘Big fella, huh?’

He picks up a twig and bends to prod it.

‘Maybe not, Tommy. How would you feel if one of your giants started poking you?’

He doesn’t stop, just flips the beetle over and crouches low for further inspection.

‘Jeepers creepers, how many legs does one tiny creature need?’

I’m trying to reach him when he presses the twig down hard into the centre of the beetle, its innards flying in all directions, a sickening crunch.

I can’t help myself: ‘Did that make you feel better?’

He doesn’t answer, just throws the twig down and puts his hands in his pockets. ‘Tommy…? Tommy. Look at me.’

His eyes. Dug out with a spoon.

‘I’m sorry, darling. Yaya’s sorry. I didn’t mean for this to happen.’

I kneel in front of him. How can someone so young have so little light in their eyes? Were they always this deep-set, or are they grooves from tiredness? No person this little should have eyes like these. A replica of his mother, who deserves the bruises she sports.

I’m careful not to touch him, reading his signals that this is close enough.

‘I was sick, Tommy. And now I’m getting better. I’ll be home soon.’

He looks down, scuffing the toe of his trainer on the ground.

‘We can all go home soon.’