‘Another drink? Tea? Orange juice?’

A nod, noncommittal. Hobbes ordered him tea, and a chocolate wafer biscuit.

‘I didn’t know where to go, when I left home.’

Hobbes let him speak.

‘And then I ran into a friend and they told me about the squat, about Oliver’s … That’s what we called the house. I was welcomed there. Nadia helped me, a few of the others. It felt safe. I was safe there.’ His lips trembled, and his eyes darted this way and that. ‘But it all changed when … when …’

‘When you saw the body?’

Martin nodded.

‘Listen to me, son. This is very important. Did you see him die?’

A look of fear in response.

‘Were you there when he died? How long ago was it? Do you know how he died? Was it an overdose? If so, what kind of drug? Martin! Answer me!’

‘No! No, I didn’t see. They took me down there to the cellar, Nadia and her friends. They introduced me to Fabian. His body. They called him the dreamer, the sleeping god, the man of flowers, the fisher king, the giver of gifts, the taker, the creator, the lord of the house, Lord Cromwell, the wounded prince, the eternal one, death in life, death in—’

He had risen from the table in his anguish as the words tumbled forth, the many names. The two other diners and the waitress were all looking over.

‘Martin!’ Hobbes grabbed the lad’s wrist, hard. And he held on tight.

‘Let me go! You can’t keep me here, you can’t!’

And for a moment, for one long moment, they were pulling apart, separating. But then he felt Martin’s body relax, the tension falling away as he looked through the café’s window at a car pulling up to the kerb. His mother got out. Hobbes was relieved to see her. Glenda came into the light of the café. She stood at the door looking at her son, and at her husband. She came forward, her expression still unsure. And then she put on her best face, and took hold of Martin, embracing him. Immediately, he sat back down in his seat. Glenda squeezed in next to Hobbes.

‘I don’t care what you’ve done, or where you’ve been.’

That was it. That was all she said.

It was enough.

Glenda smiled, and called to the waitress.

As they waited for her order to arrive, Hobbes told a story. His voice was unsteady, still finding itself. But the words came to him: ‘Son, did I ever tell you how we met, your mother and I?’

‘Yeah, of course. You met in a picture house.’

‘But do you know what kind of picture house it was, and what kind of movies they were showing?’

‘Henry! I don’t think the lad needs to know this.’

Hobbes laughed gently. ‘Oh, I think he does.’

The late-night café was called the Blackbird. Anyone passing along the road at that moment, on that night, might have glanced through the window and seen the three people sitting at the table, chatting to each other. They might have seen them as a family, might have imagined they were close, and loving to each other. They might have imagined them to be happy.