There’s something else outside: a toddler peering round the hedge. Two years old, the shape looks familiar. Dressed in green, brown face paint on its cheeks, satin hood drawn snugly round the face, and a cloak with spines – she’s not sure what it’s meant to be, perhaps a hedgehog, or a monster. She beckons it – it comes closer. The shape is definitely familiar – those slight shoulders, sloping a little, almost unformed. It’s drawn to the window, to the lantern – to the toy farmer. It presses against the glass and traces a finger around the toy through the pane. She gets up gently and picks up the figure; the child draws back from the window – she must look like a giant. She quickly steps out of the room, to the hall, to the door and opens it just as the child has backed out of the front garden, is nearly back on the pavement. She holds the figure out in her outstretched arm, at the child’s height, apple still in her other hand. Tilts it from side to side – a little jig. The child looks at it. Takes a small step forward. She tilts it again, takes another bite from her apple. The child looks up at her. It’s wearing a brown rollneck and its cape is lined with white. Oh, she says. You’re a conker! She laughs. I’ve been waiting for you, she says, and she holds the door open.

‌What’s for you won’t go by you

Ollie watches Ria measure out the dose. Give us a swig, he says.

He sees a calculation running behind the screen of her eyes. A tightening at the corners of the mouth. She stretches across the space between them, hands him the little paper cup, slowly.

He looks at her over the top of it, pauses a moment, takes a tiny green sip.

Ria shakes her head at him. Lightweight.

He smiles, returns it and she finishes it.

She settles back in her armchair, feet tucked under her, and chucks him a tobacco tin. Roll us one, love.

He squeezes the lid, pulls out the stuff – she’s got an old mechanical roller in there, and some hash.

She watches him roll. Come down the needle exchange with me tomorrow?

Am I staying then?

It’s a long way home, isn’t it?

He licks the paper. What do you need needles for?

I don’t but, you know, they’re free. She stretches across to take the cig from him. Condoms too. Might need those. She picks a candle off the occasional table for a light, blows out smoke. They give you a cup of tea there.

With four sugars. And a plastic spoon. He takes a new paper and rolls one for himself.