‘The Carlton,’ Alison said again, to imprint it on his mind, and he made a careful forty-five-degree turn, swayed for a moment at the top of the stairs, and then lumbered down them, recklessly, two at a time. She waited to hear the door shut behind him, and then she closed her bedroom door again. Now, on the mix tape, it was that band Dan went on about, the band she’d never heard of, Talking Heads, ‘Take Me To The River’. Alison sat down on the edge of the bed and listened, to see if she could hear what Daniel heard in them: to see if they’d speak to her as they seemed to speak to him. She turned up the volume and lay down.

In the morning, Peter was back and when Alison came downstairs he was sitting at the kitchen table in his donkey jacket. He looked sheepish, Alison thought, so she nudged him and said, ‘Got lucky, did you?’ It was so rare for Peter to stay out all night. In fact, she couldn’t remember when he last did. He shrugged and didn’t answer, so she didn’t push it, only pulled up a chair opposite him and sat down.

‘Is there tea?’ she said.

He nodded, and pushed the brown teapot across to her, followed by a cleanish mug.

‘Good time?’ she said.

‘Saw Superman, at the Gaumont.’

‘And?’

‘And what?’ He sounded defensive, and she laughed.

‘And what did you think of it?’

‘Oh. Yeah, fantastic.’

‘With Toddy?’

Peter nodded. ‘So, you a Wednesday fan now then?’

Alison laughed. ‘No, but oh, I had such a laugh, Peter. We threw snowballs at Arsenal’s goalie.’

‘I know,’ Peter said. ‘It were ont radio.’

‘We walked back, took us ages, eating chips and talking. Went to Daniel’s house. His dad keeps racing pigeons. His sister painted my nails.’ She spread them out on the table, perfectly pink, and considered them for a while, then she looked up at Peter. ‘It was nice.’

Peter smiled at her. ‘It sounds it. I still wish he were a Blade.’

There was the sudden muted clatter of a key in the door and then it burst open and Catherine could be heard in the small front hall, kicking off her high heels and dropping her bag and coat on the floor. She came into the kitchen and brought a smell of fags and stale alcohol, but the look on her face wasn’t blank or hostile, only weary. She dropped heavily into the remaining empty chair at the table, then she tilted her head to look first at Peter, and then at Alison.