Cross the road, weaving through turning traffic and plastic carrier bags hanging off prams and I can see him sitting in the same place by the wall and I can hear a train pulling into the station and the sun is out now, breaking through the grey.

He’s not alone. There’s someone next to him bending over the dog, scratching its ears, a man in biker leathers with a grey ponytail and massive sideburns. They’re laughing at something and he nods and the man in leathers salutes him like he’s a washed up ship’s captain who just happened to land on a pavement outside a train station.

I could still do it. I could just drop it onto his sleeping bag and keep walking. And I’m right there and it’s now or never. Now, now, now.

Fuck it. I walk straight past him.

I’m not hungry anymore. I can’t eat it. So I leave the paper bag on the chopping board next to the toaster. I take Lorna’s postcard out of my pocket and screw it up in both hands. I hover next to the bin but can’t actually bring myself to do it. There might be something I haven’t spotted yet. A hidden message or even an apology. I take it upstairs and unfold it. The trees are criss-crossed with papery lines now. Some of the words are almost unreadable.

I slot it into the Bible and shove it under the bed. Turn on the computer and wait for it to boot up. Try not to look at the wreckage, the state of my bombs-dropped-pig-sty-hovel. Staring at the screen with the cursor blinking in the Google search box. The whole world at my fingertips and I can’t think of a single thing to type.

I hear the car pull into the drive and the door go. I count to twenty slowly. I hear Mum dropping bags in the hall, hanging up the keys, filling the kettle. Her feet on the stairs. By nineteen she’s knocking on the door and opening it just a bit, peering in like she’s testing the atmosphere, measuring hostility levels.

‘Alright?’ she says – she has this tone. I’m delicate. I might explode.

‘Fine.’

‘There’s a pasty in the kitchen.’

‘They were on offer ok – cheap as chips so I brought one back.’

‘For me?’

‘Who else?’

She’s still there. Why is she hovering around? She smiles. More than that – she bloody lights up.

‘How did you know? I’m starving. Just what I fancied.’

‘Don’t overdo it. It’s just a pie.’ She should save her enthusiasm. There’s some serious pastel Mother’s Day shit heading her way in only a matter of hours. She looks at me looking at the screen.

‘What’re you doing?’ she says, moving closer like she might actually sit on the bed, like she wants to connect.