That night, sleep sweeps down over her and Leah dreams again of Cian. It’s always the same dream. He’s lying on the changing table after his bath, his flesh all naked and warm, pink and chubby. He’s kicking his legs and laughing, making his high-pitched gurgling sounds. She’s laughing, too, and tickling him with one hand, the other reaching for the cotton wool and the baby lotion. In these dreams, she is half turned when she feels him begin to roll. The padded cushion beneath him slips to one side. In these dreams, she turns just in time and catches him, holds him to her chest. ‘Where d’you think you’re going?’ she tells him, smelling the baby shampoo in the fine threads of his hair, his little pounding fists at her neck, the sudden wriggle and bounce of him in her arms. That’s what she usually dreams.

But tonight it’s different. In the dream, she half turns and reaches for the sink. The baby lotion is just there by the tap. Reaching for it, her fingers knock it over and it falls to the floor. Quickly, she leans away and bends down to pick it up – it takes an instant. And as she reaches, she feels the rush of air behind her, and then the soft thud, like china wrapped in cloth, hitting the cold surface of the tiles. The baby is sprawled on the floor. He doesn’t cry. He just lies there, his limbs outspread, staring up at the distant ceiling in amazement. Fear pounds in her chest and then she sweeps him up in her arms. In takes a minute or two before he starts to cry. He doesn’t wail or scream, but rather there is uncertainty within his distress, as if he’s not quite sure of the root of it.

She holds him in her arms, and rocks him back and forth. ‘It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay,’ she tells him, her heart thudding through her chest and into his little body. Wetness against her blouse when he pees suddenly. She puts the padded mat back on the changing table and lays the baby down, holds him there with one hand on his belly. It takes a minute for her hands to stop shaking enough for her to fix his nappy on.

‘Hey,’ a voice says.

Leah blinks her eyes open and starts to sit up.

It’s dark in the room and, without consulting the clock, she knows it’s the middle of the night. Jake sits on the bed, his hand on her chest, gently but firmly, so it’s like he’s holding her down, preventing her from sitting up.

‘Jake?’ she says, her tongue thick in her mouth, the remnants of the dream disconcerting her.

‘I’m going now,’ he tells her.

‘What? But you’ve just come back.’