Since they’ve been in the shelter, they’re tighter than ever. They eat dinner with elbows touching. Finish their water at the same time. Rush up the stairs, where, in the privacy of their shabby pink room, he makes up worlds and possibilities that warp and stretch the walls. He tells her how, when he’s older, he’ll find the Loch Ness monster, and Lizzie can almost see it. Lizzie, who can’t watch Jurassic Park, can picture herself packing her son’s bag with a compass and a net.

And when he finally gives in to slumber, when his baby face reappears with the moon, Lizzie writes his name into a grid of letters that will hide him and keep him safe.

George

(Betty, by the way)

GEORGE IS WOKEN FROM his lunchtime nap by someone clearing their throat loudly. Briefly, he thinks it might be Ellen, then remembers that’s impossible, and no one else matters.

‘What-ho!’

He opens one eye and sees a pair of neon-green leggings. He lifts his groggy head and spies a matching green top. The owner is lumpy, the Lycra making hillocks over her sagging stomach. He carries on looking up till he finds her face. Pink and shiny. White-grey hair held back from her face by a sweatband.

‘Howdy! I’m Betty. Your dog has been barking for weeks.’

‘Fuck off,’ says George, closing his eyes again.

‘No can do, Sweary Mary.’ Her voice is deep for a woman. Well spoken. She sounds like a Radio 4 presenter imparting bad news. ‘I’m the head of the Neighbourhood Watch. We’ve had sixteen complaints about your dog in the last week. Two new recruits off the back of it, mind you. Every cloud …’

‘So take the dog with you when you fuck off.’ George tips his head back, wanting to return to the custard-thick oblivion he’d found when he closed his eyes. Phosphenes dancing like fireflies. He was a Boy Scout again in that inky darkness, not a wasted old bastard in a wing chair. A leather-clad foot taps him, making him jump.

‘Mother of pearl, your house smells! You need to open some windows.’ The woman flaps a hand in front of her nose. ‘Phooey.’

‘Your clobber is worse. Get out.’

The foot taps him again, harder. ‘Oh, go fry an egg. I’m not here to take your dog. I’m here to tell you to look after it better, poor thing.’ On cue, Poppy dramatically slumps to the floor and lays her head on George’s slipper.

‘You can’t come in here and tell me what to do,’ George roars, rising from his chair. Slightly drunk, definitely dehydrated, and very, very pungent.

‘I just did. I’d shake your hand, but you smell too bad. Christ on a cracker, when did you last wash?’

‘Get out of my house, or I’ll call the police.’ The living room tilts slightly, and George suddenly feels seasick.