‘You look well, Sonya.’

‘Thanks.’

I watch the kitten running in circles, sniffing, pawing the ground. This is good, this sitting with my father, sipping tea, a frolicking kitten in the kitchen. Maybe ‘good’ is all I need.

‘Right, Sonya, better get going…’

Of course this moment was coming. I gather my reserves of strength and dignity and say, ‘Sure.’

‘We brought in all the basics, except cat food. Didn’t reckon on that one.’

Who’s this ‘we’? Mrs O’Malley, or Lara? Neither option fills me with much pleasure.

‘Thanks, Dad. Chat tomorrow?’

He lifts his heavy grey overcoat from the back of the chair, lumbers towards the door, one hand pushing into the sleeve, the other dangling awkwardly.

‘You going to be ok?’ he says.

I nod; a trooper. Just as he’s turning to go, he hands me a card. ‘Tommy’s social worker’s number. Maureen Brennan. She’s expecting a call from you in the morning.’

‘Thanks.’ Then I ask in as casual a tone as possible, ‘Do you have the contact details for the one who’s actively minding Tommy? Clare, or something? She might be very glad to hear from me. He could be being a handful.’

‘Sonya, that’s not how this works. This Maureen Brennan is your contact.’

The torture of having to get through a night here without either Tommy or Herbie.

My father kisses me lightly on the cheek. ‘You did it, daughter.’

We are both surprised by these words and the surge of moisture in his eyes. Emotion has finally caught up with him, taken residence inside him – I wonder if this is a sign of him getting old.

‘Talk to you tomorrow.’

And he is gone, the door shut firmly behind him.

27

I look around the recently scrubbed cottage, take in the biro marks on the walls, the spills on the once-cream carpets. I walk into the bedroom, the kitten following; settle her on the bed beside me and get out my phone, still plenty of data available on my last top-up, seeing as it hasn’t been used in three months. Tap in the words ‘Dublin pounds and rescue centres’ and spend the next hour calling each one in turn.

‘A big shaggy black carpet of a dog, all sorts, huge tail, long sloppy ears, beautiful eyes, you’d know him if you met him,’ I say to one young woman who sounds like she’s smoking, chewing gum and painting her nails all at once.

‘Nah. Sorry. Nothing of that description in here.’

‘What about three months ago?’

‘Well, if it was that long ago, he’d be gone by now, missus. Either rehomed, or sent to a rescue, or euthanised.’

I throw the phone down. I’m going to have to ask my father directly, though I want to avoid having that conversation as much as he does. I lie on my side, curled in on myself, my nose touching the tip of the cat’s. Rest my hand on her fur and close my eyes, imagine Herbie and Tommy snuggled up against me. Breathe in, out, in, out, Yaya, it’s safe to go to Nod with me and Herbie here.