‘Fine, fine,’ I said. ‘Give it to me.’

Bella and the police officer had turned in my direction – both were pointed at me. The man in red who had been talking with them walked towards where I sat. It was the postman.

‘James Bickerton? Basement flat?’ he asked.

I nodded, although it seemed a trifle fraudulent to lay claim to an address that no longer existed.

‘There’s post for you,’ he said. ‘I suppose …’ He glanced towards the corner of my former street. ‘I suppose I should just give it to you.’

He handed me a cockatoo.

On the rear step of an ambulance, surrounded by professionals, within shouting distance of my cratered home, I was an object of sympathy. The disaster that had birthed my torn and filthy form was obvious and recent, and I was being taken care of, so I could be safely pitied.

On the Tube, I was feared and hated. A bandaged ghoul, separated from my circumstances, I had become a contagious emissary from an underworld of anarchy and corruption. No one knew what had happened to me, but they knew they didn’t want a part of it. People put their bags on their laps and pulled their staring children a little closer as I appeared. Talk died away and eyes followed me. Breaths were held, in case I stank as bad as I looked. I was succeeded by a wake of relief as I did not stop or ask for money. I sat in the last seat of the carriage, causing the man next to me to shift and hitch. Don’t worry, mate, you’re not going to catch anything.

I let out a curt laugh at this thought, and my neighbour shifted again. He was about my age. So I stared at him a while, watching the side of his eyeballs strain with the effort of not looking back at me, before turning my attention to the cockatoo in my lap.

It was a handsome specimen, legs wide on a branch, yellow plumes radiating proudly, a cheeky glint in its eye. I flipped the postcard over to reread what was written on the back.

Dearest James,

We are in Prague again, and saw these splendid chaps at the Zoo. Do you remember Uncle Charles’s cockatoo? Such personality in a bird. I generally think them cruel & stupid creatures but it was neither. It kept us so entertained that time it came to visit. Returning Saturday week, via Bratislava and a night in Vienna. Love from us both.

– Mum (& Dad) xxx

For the tenth or twentieth time, I turned the postcard over and looked at the bird. Uncle Charles had a cockatoo. I had not been lying to my friends. It must have been so unlikely to my child-self that it always had the ingredients of invention. But the foundational lie of my lying life was not a lie, it was the truth.