He stayed that way for a couple of minutes, until the guilt about leaving Vern fixing his kitchen won out. Patrick and Ed were mucking about with a set of juggling bags, and Patrick howled with laughter as Ed lobbed one at Harry’s back.

‘Go easy, Ed,’ Harry warned. ‘You’re a lot stronger than Patrick.’

Harry was levelling up the repaired door when Charlie came up from the lab, giving Vern a welcome-home hug before grabbing a cold-water jug from the fridge. Her eyes looked glazed as she gave Harry a kiss, and asked Vern why he wasn’t lying down.

‘Went crazy cooped up in the hospital,’ Vern said as he wiped dust and filler crumbs off the kitchen worktop. ‘Not one for sitting still.’

Charlie looked at Harry. ‘I got a call back from lawyer Sue. She said technically I need to file an adoption petition for Patrick, or hand him to the authorities. But in the real world it’s only a problem if someone is looking for him, like a grandma or something.’

‘Did Seth have family?’ Harry asked as he spotted Rosie coming up their drive holding a plate of something she’d baked.

‘Not that I know of,’ Charlie said. ‘And, judging by the filthy clothes and cigarette burns, they didn’t much care if they were around.’

‘Knock, knock,’ Rosie said brightly, coming through the door holding a loaf cake sealed in an anti-virus bag. ‘Have you stolen my husband?’

Ed had a nose for Rosie’s cake and strode in, dragging one leg because Patrick was clamped to it.

‘You two seem to be hitting it off,’ Rosie said as Harry reached into a cupboard to grab a pile of plates.

Patrick let go of Ed’s leg, then stood between Harry and Charlie and spoke quietly. ‘My butt hurts again.’

‘You mean you want the toilet?’ Harry asked.

Charlie shook her head and squatted down. ‘He uses the toilet by himself, but he keeps saying his butt hurts.’

‘Where does it hurt, sweetie?’ Rosie asked.

‘Here,’ Patrick said, squeezing his left buttock. ‘The man who killed Mikey and mom did it.’

‘I’ve looked,’ Charlie explained to Rosie. ‘I can’t see anything except a tiny red mark.’

‘Take him to the clinic,’ Harry suggested.

‘I’d love to get him checked out,’ Charlie said. ‘But if I rock up at a paediatrician’s office, twenty years old, with a kid that isn’t mine who’s covered in bruises and belt marks and with no adoption paperwork, they’ll call the cops on me.’

‘True,’ Harry said thoughtfully.

‘I could take him,’ Rosie said. ‘I’ll make sure it’s Dr Laurel. She’s partly retired now, but she still works three days a week and I’ve known her since my eldest was born.’