‘Yaya?’

‘Yes, darling?’

‘Have you been very sick?’

How do I answer this one without adding to his overspilling anxiety?

‘I have been sick, darling, but I’m nearly all better.’

He nods, a kind of a half-nod, as if trying to convince himself. We’re outside the shop now, seconds away from another separation.

‘Would you like a hug, Tommy?’

I risk it, terrified of the possible rebuff my question might give rise to.

He’s weighing it up, turning over the possibilities in his mind, when I hear my father’s voice beside us: ‘Ah, there you are. We were getting worried. Come on, young man. Time to get going.’

He grabs hold of Tommy’s hand, which goes limp, while the rest of his body turns hard. Lara is right behind him.

‘Bye, darling.’

He says bye, then walks away, his hand still caught in my father’s grip. Just as they’ve almost reached the car park he breaks free, and runs back towards me, hurtling his body against mine, nuzzling his head against my stomach. I bend down to kiss the top of his head, which smells of anti-dandruff shampoo, or is it anti-nit? It smacks the back of my throat. I picture him getting his hair washed by someone else, eyes scrunched tight, soap dripping in. That shit stings.

21

I’m not sure I’ll be able to contain this mad fluttering thing in the centre of my chest now. I need to run, to fuck, to fly, need an outlet, release, soothing. So I run. In my shitty Converse, with my shin splints, I run around and around the circumference of the grounds, visitors still present – who is that mad bat? That mad bat is me! I want to shout at the top of my voice, and I think I see her, my imp, in her gaudy gear, gearing up. And I’m tempted to engage, I really am. It’s all going on in there: love, longing, loss, rage, looping, cranking itself up. Lara… I mean… what was Father thinking? Dear God, how is this in Tommy’s best interests? How? You saw him. The pain of him, his shrunken little self, his confusion, his look of bamboozlement, his fear, his abandonment. And yet – to have seen him makes happiness explode inside me like fizzy sherbet. Still, I run.

I only stop when I might puke. I’m dizzy, which is kind of nice; I’m back in my body, heavy and exhausted, shins sore. No sign of Lady Madcap now. I walk, slightly limping, heart thumping. Try to gather the disparate parts of me. I draw on everything I’ve learned in here. Feel the ground beneath my feet, look around me, try to see, to really see, what is really here: the shedding trees, the leaves underfoot, the murky sky above. I breathe slowly, attempt to access my Higher Power: a kind parent, or that part of me that wants what’s good for me. A nurturing cheerleader, not that high-kicking fiend who’s only out to cause chaos. One foot in front of the other, one breath after another, and I find I am a little bit calmer.