When George gets home, he stops and rests his weary head on the spare-room door, pressing his fingers on the wood. He stands there until Poppy rubs her nose against his leg and brings him back to himself and his shit day. Then he goes to bed and sleeps in his clothes on top of the covers, Poppy by his side.

He’s woken the next morning by Betty letting herself in. Over a breakfast of kippers on toast, she asks him how he got on alone all weekend.

‘Fine. What did you think? That I’d die without you, you old windbag?’

‘Tut, tut, of course not. I thought you’d be out clubbing down West Street, a card like you.’

George thinks the only thing he’d wanted to club was the manager of the shop, but he says nothing. Ellen’s letter is still in his pocket and he closes his fingers around it. The paper whispers against his leg.

And, for once, he doesn’t reply.

Dan

(Sesame Street)

DAN AND ATTICUS HAVE reached their last counselling session. Dan is sitting on the sofa and Atticus is in Dan’s chair. It works better this way because Dan is always slightly light-headed around Atticus. And the sofa is very comfy. If Dan were the kind of person who napped in the day, he’d do it here, with sunlight falling on his face and the clock ticking.

Dan knows this final session will not be the last time he sees Atticus, but it may be his last chance to counsel him. He is determined to try, again, to see if he can get anything out of Atticus. If he can do what he was meant to do, which was help him. This time, he tries a different approach. He gives away a weakness of his own.

‘I count,’ he says. ‘I’ve always done it, and it drives me mad. Probably a sign of a bigger issue. I know this, and still I count.’

‘You count, eh? Existentially? Or is that a title?’ Atticus says, sounding amused. ‘Like Count Dracula, or the Count from Sesame Street? A-one ha-ha-ha, a-two, ha-ha-ha …’ He swivels slightly in the chair as he says this. A wheel squeaks in time.

Dan sits up and rubs his forehead. He’s trying to share something real here, which is more than Atticus has ever done. ‘I count, like the folds of the curtains, and if the number isn’t even, I have to rearrange the material. Even when I know it’s even, I have to count again to make sure I’ve counted correctly.’

When Atticus says nothing, Dan keeps talking. ‘I even pat my dog a certain number of times. I have this job where I’m supposed to know all the answers, to be sorted, but I count everything. It makes me feel like a fraud.’

‘We’re all frauds,’ Atticus murmurs, as he squeaks left and right.