‘My mum died young and I never knew her parents’ – the first time I’ve said that out loud – ‘and my mother’s only sister didn’t get on with my stepmother, and my father stopped talking to my uncle.’

Maureen looks at me in a way I can’t read. Does she think I’m a liar, an attention-seeker, an actress?

‘So you can see why I felt my father should’ve taken Tommy.’

‘Your father expressed regret that he couldn’t manage the boy, but he said he exhibited some behavioural concerns.’

I feign nonchalance. What the hell did he say?

‘Do you know about his fascination with fire?’

I think of his face lit up by the flames that night, his enthralment with anything bright and burning. Mr Sunshine, Mr Flickering Fire. Has this built to something more dangerous? Is my little boy a potential arsonist? I almost laugh; he’s not yet five. And still.

‘I know he likes to look at bright, flickering things. He’s like his mother in that way.’

‘Did he ever try to set anything on fire before?’

‘No. He just liked to watch it.’

‘And you let him?’

‘Only under supervision.’

‘What about when you were blacked-out?’

Maureen’s reading from a report. Penned by whom? There is no psychiatric report on me, as far as I am aware.

‘I never left Tommy alone in a room with a lighter.’

‘Did you teach him to strike a match?’

‘No, I don’t keep matches in the house.’

Maureen checks her watch, clears the bundles of paper on her desk.

‘Did something happen? Did Tommy cause an accident?’

‘Nothing serious, Sonya. We can talk more next time, and we’ll arrange for a supervised visit next week.’

‘Great, yes. Does that mean I can pick him up today?’

‘I meant that you can visit him here with me, next week.’

‘Oh, I see. So when will he be coming home?’

‘That depends on how the next couple of weeks pan out. We need to make sure you’re committed to staying sober. You need to work with us on this.’

I find myself nodding furiously. Yes, yes, I understand, yes. Too submissive, not convincing, hollow words ringing out. Maureen has seen it all; I know to check the tears.

31

‘They have a great big garden,’ Father says of his golf buddy, who, apparently, would be ‘devastated’ to see the dog go. ‘He has settled in very well, Sonya.’

I’d like to ask Herbie what he thinks about that situation, Dad. Not a good move as far as presenting Ms Sanity goes. ‘Just let me speak to them.’

He looks trapped, like a well-behaved schoolboy who has been caught smoking behind the school sheds, his one act of rebellion. Lara is bustling about at the kitchen counter, pretending to look busy. You’d think she’d make herself scarce, give father and daughter some time alone together – who am I kidding?

‘Can I have their number, Dad?’ I can’t stay another night under that roof with only my scattergun brain and the bleating kitten for company.