A West Indian bloke stood there, lifting a smoking casket of chips. I knew I was ill because I was seeing double. There were two of him, doing different things. My head spun.

‘Anywhere for a leak?’ I mouthed. That wasn’t the way to speak, but I was pleased to manage words at all. My lips felt swollen and dry; my skull felt stretched.

‘Nope,’ said the other one.

It wasn’t one man, it was two. This particular one was sticking an 80p label over the sign that said Jamaica Patties 65p.

‘My goodness gracious,’ I twittered. ‘Twins!’

They thought I was drunk. A child came in and ordered three doner kebabs. An old man sat at a table and a Space Invader winked at me, telling me to mind my words, chum, and keep my balance.

The second twin was saying something to me.

‘Lousards,’ he said.

‘Pardon?’ I asked.

‘Lousards.’

‘What?’

‘Use ours.’ He indicated the back door.

I went into a yard, where I found an outside toilet. Two cats, sitting on a corrugated iron roof, eyed me with pity from their superior position. Oh, to be a cat.

In the toilet I tried to gather my wits. I had to ask these men a question but I couldn’t quite remember what it was.

I want my son. What do you mean, want? Want him for what?

I’m looking for Edward. Teddy. Eddie. Who’s he? You don’t know? Fish or fowl? Animal or mineral, alive or dead?

I’ve lost my son. Lost him? Where? Down the pan?

I pulled the chain and realized, with surprise, that the only person I really wanted to see, to put my arms around, to rest my head against, to be comforted by, was my mother.

I went back into the café and waited while they served a sudden rush of customers. If only I was hungry, there was a terrific menu—Pizza rolls, Southern Fried Chicken, something called Creole Fritters; cod and haddock too.

Then it must be my turn because one of the twins, whichever it was, he wore the blue t-shirt, said: ‘Can I help you?’

The words came out in the right order. ‘Do you know a bloke called Barry?’

‘You want him?’

I shrugged. ‘I might.’

‘He a mate of yours?’

It tripped off my tongue: ‘I’m Lesley’s brother.’

He nodded. I nodded. His face swung closer to me, then receded. Somebody dropped some cutlery and it clattered like cymbals.

Then he said: ‘He’s gone, man.’

‘Where?’

He drank from a can of Diet Pepsi. ‘Saudi-Arabia.’

His face loomed. The air pummelled me to and fro. ‘Dear Christ,’ I said. Somebody started the juke box. I raised my voice. ‘They’ve all gone?’

He shook his head. ‘Just Barry.’

‘Did they live here?’ I shouted.

He shook his head again. ‘Nope. He was a pal of mine. Not a mate. A pal.’

Through my illness I realized: Barry must have had his letters delivered here, the slimy git, so Lesley wouldn’t see them.