“I don’t think you understand how the Mémé Catherines of this world reason, Rat. You think everybody’s like us, you know, antiracist, peace-and-love. Well, Mémé Catherine’s from another planet. Mémé Catherine doesn’t like Arabs. Period. No way she’s going to let an Arab boy into her house. You tell Mémé Catherine that bullshit story about Thierry, you know what’s gonna happen? She’s gonna get straight on the phone to Child Welfare and get Morgan taken away that very same day. Perfect excuse. Is that what you want to happen, Morgan ending up in Care?”

Care again. Rat imagines Morgan in a strange town, in a strange house, in a strange family. Worse still, an orphanage. Not sharing a room with him. Not talking to him in the dark, not getting him up for school in the mornings. Seeing him maybe once a year. Or never.

But she doesn’t believe it. Vanessa hates Mémé Catherine so much she’ll tell any lie about her. Mémé Catherine’s too Catholic, too duty-bound: like it or not, Morgan’s her legally adopted grandson. In any case, they’re not planning to live with her forever: it’s just a road stop till Rat can figure out how to get them to England.

She hikes a knapsack onto each shoulder, and goes through the door. Out in the courtyard, Morgan and Cristel’s godson are kicking around a football. Morgan drops it when he sees Rat emerge from the apartment, and comes running. Rat hands him his knapsack, with the sleeping bag attached.

Vanessa watches from the doorway.

“Come here, Morgan,” she says. “Aren’t you going to give your old Vanilla-do a kiss?”

Morgan goes and puts his arms around Vanessa. He is almost as tall as she is. She strokes his curls, kisses his face. Holds him at arm’s length and looks at him. “So Rat’s going to take you off for a few days’ holiday, all right? Is that what you want to do?”

He nods.

“That’s all right, then. You two go, enjoy yourselves. You need a bit of a break. You be good, my bedbug, you take care of Rat for me. She’s a good girl, but she’s stubborn as a mule.”

She hugs him tight, then releases him.

“Rat?” she says. She holds out her arms to Rat, imploringly.

Rat doesn’t move.

“Do you have your cell phone?”

Rat doesn’t answer.

“Will you call me?” she asks, finally. A quaver in her voice. “Ratkin?”

No answer.

“Promise?”

Rat won’t promise.

“Rat, you’re a child still. And I’m your mother. I’m not giving you up that easy, Rat. I want to know where you are, and I want you to keep in touch. This is your home, here with me. You, me, Morgan. Us three forever. Okay?”