‘I was nine,’ he said, his Italian accent suddenly much more pronounced, his eyes firmly closed. My body prickled with unease: it felt as if he really was spiralling backwards in time, to a place where we might not be able to reach him. I longed now for one of his stupid jokes: it made me grateful for Hannah’s clammy palm, sitting heavily on my hand.

‘I am nine,’ whispered Amber.

‘I am nine,’ he repeated. ‘I cannot sleep. I come down the stairs, and my father is in the lounge. He tidies them away, but I know there are drugs on the table, even if I don’t know what they are called.’

‘And where’s your mother?’ asked Amber, her focus on him absolute.

‘She is working. She is in America. I have nobody but him.’ Marco’s body juddered. ‘She’s been gone for so long. I am scared.’

‘Of course you’re scared,’ said Arthur.

‘I am so scared,’ said Marco, starting to cry. ‘I know I need to be his little man.’

‘So of course you never grew up,’ said Amber triumphantly. ‘You never had the chance to be a child.’

‘You’re our child today, Marco,’ said Arthur.

I looked around the room, trying to catch someone’s eye, but everybody was staring intently at the tableau unfolding in front of us. Only Hannah responded, her flushed face full of emotion. ‘I love you,’ she mouthed. I smiled weakly back.

‘I ask him what he’s doing, and then I say I won’t tell Mummy. He is my best friend.’

‘My poor little boy,’ said Amber, her voice soaked with sympathy. ‘You have to try so hard, don’t you? You have to work so hard to survive.’

‘It’s so fuck-ing hard,’ yelled Marco, fists balled up like the frustrated child he once was, tears spurting. ‘He takes out a card, he lines up the drugs and I’m… I’m just waiting to see what he will do. It looks like sugar… from when we make the biscuits at school.’ The petty innocence of that detail pierced me, dragged me inside of Marco’s story and out of my own head. ‘But I know it’s something bad.’

‘So what does he do to you, Marco?’ hisses Amber.

‘He…’ Marco’s profile was white, tears cascading down his cheeks. ‘He leans down, he snorts some up and then…’ Marco shuddered to silence, the whole room rigid as we waited for him. ‘He shows me how to do it.’

Our collective shock felt as though it curdled the air around us. It was me who squeezed Hannah’s hand this time.

‘Oh, Marco,’ said Amber, loving and wise. He looked up at her through wet eyes, gratitude and vulnerability shining out. ‘You’re safe now. We’ve got you. You’re not Abandoned Peter Pan anymore.’