‘Sure . . . I’ll leave you be,’ he said, and left.

An hour later I woke with a genuine headache.

Groggy, I pushed myself up and switched on the lamp. I was desperate for the loo, so forced myself out of bed and took hold of the crutches resting against the wall. On standing, I allowed my foot to take a little weight, like you told me to. Thank goodness the swelling had reduced and it no longer felt impossible.

On my way back, hearing the familiar shooting and explosions coming from Dale’s room, I shuffled over there and knocked. No answer. Presuming he couldn’t hear, I opened the door.

‘Hey,’ I said.

‘How’s the head?’ He didn’t look at me. His top teeth bit down on his bottom lip as he straightened his arms, and pressed, pressed, pressed.

‘It’s still there . . . I fell asleep.’

‘Yes, I noticed.’

‘Oh . . . Oh right. What are you having for dinner?’ An explosion made me jump.

‘Had it.’

‘Oh . . . Is there anything I could have?’

‘Not really.’

‘Right. Well, I guess I’ll order a pizza, then, or something.’

‘OK.’

I pulled the door to, then stopped halfway and said, ‘You know, I think the arnica’s really helped. Thank you.’

He paused the game, turned to me. ‘Actually . . . I think I may have a pizza left in the freezer. You go back to bed and I’ll bring it in to you.’

Once in my room, I took more painkillers, smoked a cigarette and turned on the TV. Flicked through the wasteland of shite. An old Nigella, a soft-focus shot of her sucking her finger free of kumquat jam. A penguin documentary that prompted an emergency channel change because of the impending death of a chick. People already humiliated by having the bailiffs round enduring further humiliation by having it filmed. Flick, flick, flick.

Then my heart was stabbed.

Though near the end, I instantly recognized it: Brief Encounter.

I was fifteen.

Mum had begged me to bunk off school to keep her company. Insisted we stayed in our nightwear, had a pyjama party. Me in my faded Winnie the Pooh nightie. Her in an old dressing gown adorned with a mismatched belt and fag-burnt lapel. She flitted to and from the kitchen, carrying a variety of bowls and plates filled with crisps, biscuits and lumps of cheese. Each time she left, I watched the small section of matted hair on the back of her head. With each entrance, her breath smelt stronger and stronger of vermouth.

‘Brief Encounter’s on, Connie. Please, Connie . . . watch it with me. I won’t enjoy it without you.’

Reading its summary in the TV guide she’d thrust in front of me, I didn’t fancy it at all, despite its five stars. But I humoured her and watched.