But he is here now. Eyes darting everywhere, hungry for what life has to offer. He can’t raise his head yet so it’s the eyes that move the most. As I lower myself onto the mat, he smells of vanilla. His hands poke out from the sleeves of the onesie. They are wonderful, chubby and perfect, and as for his fingernails, they are . . . well, miraculous.

‘Hello, Leo,’ I say, testing the name out.

His smooth forehead wrinkles momentarily. I hold my breath, terrified he’s about to cry. Instead, he blinks and his eyes seek out the familiarity of his foster mother’s face.

I already know that proving I am fit to be this person’s father is going to be the toughest thing I’ve ever done.

Chapter 39: Tim

4 March 2005

‘How have you been, mate?’ one of the other NA regulars asks as we pull our orange chairs into position.

‘Getting there,’ I say.

He nods. ‘Yeah. It gets easier, mate.’ From what he’s said in meetings, he lived his twenties and thirties at double speed. He’s forty-ish now but looks a decade older, even though he’s been clean a couple of years. Cellular damage, presumably.

I know everything about his downfall, his regrets, his recovery. But he knows nothing about mine. I barely say a word at these meetings.

But despite my silence, I keep coming back. The sessions help me stay off the pills, which is the only thing I seem to be getting right.

‘Take a seat, guys. I’m Anya and I’m hosting today so let’s get Friday started.’

Anya runs through the rules – confidentiality, respect, non-judgemental listening, all the usual – and asks if anyone is new. A handful of people raise their hands.

‘There’s no pressure to speak yet, just listen in and if you’d like to contribute later in the meeting, we’d love to hear from you.’ Anya has the Brighton yoga vibe to a T: wiry limbs draped in grey marl, matching hair, a soulful expression. You’d never guess she used to shoot up in the old sewer entrance under West Pier, among the puddles of piss and seawater.

Of the newcomers, one of the men looks high-functioning, which is how I’d have described myself when I first came. Another guy has clearly travelled further along the road to oblivion. If I’d have seen him in the waiting room in A & E, I’d have nudged a colleague to get him triaged sooner rather than later.

And then there’s a woman with her back to me, spiky black hair cut into the nape of her neck, slim legs crossed at the ankle.

‘So, let’s kick off,’ Anya says. ‘Friday already. How has this week been for everyone?’

I let my mind and my eyes wander: up to the stained foam tiles on the ceiling, down to the double-glazed windows and the rain lashing against the glass.