‘That’s ok, though I don’t have much time.’

I wish he hadn’t said that.

‘How are you?’

‘Tommy didn’t come again this Sunday.’

‘I asked about you.’

I look at him as if he’s stupid. He gets this.

‘Your father has to follow the guidelines.’

‘He’s his grandfather. He promised me he’d look after him.’

‘It was a big ask to expect him to look after a four-year-old.’

‘I didn’t ask. He insisted I come here.’

My father complex is a hugely unattractive side of me, pointed out by Howard enough times: ‘Grow up, Sonya. Not all Daddy’s fault,’ or some variation of this.

‘I know how disappointing it is to feel let down by the people we love.’

This is so much less harsh than a Howard-swipe, yet it lands. A thump to my windpipe.

‘Fancy a walk?’

I nod.

On our way down the corridor, I stop at the dispensing machine. ‘Think I’ll get a Coke. Feel like something fizzy today.’

‘That shit affects the body’s enzymes, pushes the brain into overdrive.’ He sounds so patronising.

I drop the coins in, loudly. First time I’ve ever done this: a new departure! David pushes the front door open, holds it for me. The light outside is grey, flat. I shake the can up and down a few times before I pull back the ring, the pressure inside exploding, foam cascading over the top, spray flying in all directions. I know I should get centred, contact the earth beneath my feet, but sometimes a girl just wants to fly. Must be the bubbles: they always have this effect. A kid’s kick. Speed is building up inside me, making me want to run, jump, high-kick, cartwheel, ‘Wheee, look at me!’ I hear my father’s voice telling me to be careful, to stay on terra firma, to stop making a spectacle of myself.

‘Don’t think you need that stuff,’ David says, gesturing to the can.

‘Nope, I guess not.’

I run my tongue over my teeth, which are singing.

‘Can you tell me what happens when I leave? With regards to Tommy?’

‘You’ll have to present yourself for assessment, obviously.’

‘Any idea of a time frame?’

‘Each case is different. They have to see you can maintain your sobriety, that you’re not a risk.’

‘So, breathalysers, that sort of thing?’ I take another gulp of the sticky, gassy liquid.

‘I imagine so, yes. They will do everything they can to reunite a child with his mother. Unless the child is deemed at risk, of course.’

How did my father get around needing my permission to have him placed in care?

We stop in front of the grotto. Neither of us genuflect or cross ourselves. He looks at me sideways.

I try it, silently. Hail Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death… Not working.

‘Anything that helps, I guess,’ he says.

‘She looks like an old, pissed Mona Lisa,’ I say.

He laughs, the sound of someone laughing at a funeral. Too loud, all wrong.