‘A magic feather, Tommy!’

He reaches out to catch it, regards it closely, examining the veins, running his thumb over the lines. I remove mine from my pocket.

‘Look, Tommy, two autumn leaves for your scrapbook.’

He worries the one in his own hand, rubbing it between his thumb and forefinger, crumbling it into tiny pieces before letting it fall to the ground. My offering lies vulnerable in my palm. He reaches out, as if in slow motion, and takes the leaf, which has dried even further since it fell only moments ago. I expect him to shred and stamp on it, but instead he kisses it and puts it in his pocket.

‘Would you like me to kiss it too, Tommy?’

He looks at me, his face registering first distaste, then consideration, followed by a tussle: yes, no, no, yes, stupid, yes, before he pulls the leaf out and offers it to me. I take it, kiss it, and put it back into his pocket.

‘Be careful not to tear it, Tommy. Remember how fragile it is?’

He nods, tapping on the outside of his pocket.

‘You can kiss me goodnight every night now.’

His face closes down, an expression I recognise from my father.

‘Would you like some ice cream, Tommy?’ I look up at the grey, cold sky.

I wonder what he’s eating now. Have they made him swallow meat? He doesn’t look like he’s eaten much. Has he developed my fascination with blanking out, spinning from lack of food? I long to reach out and rub his belly, cover it in butterfly kisses. You will never have to look after your mummy again. He needs to learn to be a little boy, he needs Herbie by his side. That dog has been there since his beginning, and even if I was passed out or otherwise off my head, Herbie’s soft animal bulk was a constant presence. An ache pushes behind my eyes; the mist is rising.

I walk ahead of him, determined not to let him see my building panic. I need some soothing music but am terrified of what I might conjure.

‘Have you been to the beach, Tommy? I miss our outings to the sea.’

I turn around and see him shaking his head ferociously as if trying to rid it of terrible things. Have my creatures made their home inside him too? I gently hold his head in my hands.

‘First thing we’ll do when I get out of here is pick Herbie up, go to the beach, throw skimmers, paddle, eat our creamy ices, and then we’ll all eat our fishies on the couch together.’

Does he buy it, trust me?

‘And Marmie? Can she come to the beach too?’

‘Why not?’

‘Can we get a lead for her? She wouldn’t like to be left home when we go for walkies.’

‘What a great idea. I think she’d like that!’

I picture our motley group being stared at, judged. I wouldn’t give a damn – let them stare, they have nothing better to do.