‘Hello, Ustym Karmaliuk,’ said Pylyp, adopting the peculiar voice he always used when addressing the reptile. ‘Are you behaving like the good tortoise for Grandmother Beverley?’

‘Christ, don’t call me that.’

‘What is this he eats?’

‘It’s an After Eight.’

‘A what?’

‘An After Eight. You know, a mint chocolate.’ She noticed the look of horror on Pylyp’s face and immediately changed tack. ‘It’s mine. It must have fallen into my lap. Sorry.’ She whipped it away from Ustym Karmaliuk’s mouth and tossed it halfway across the room, where, to her delight, it landed directly in the wastepaper basket.

‘You must not feed him these things,’ insisted Pylyp.

‘I didn’t, I promise. It just fell!’

‘I tell you this in airport. Only the leafy greens. And the crickets. He is the crazy tortoise for the crickets, I tell you this!’

‘But you don’t know how hard it is to get crickets in this part of London,’ protested Beverley. ‘Perhaps if I lived in the north, it would be easier, but here—’

‘None of these After Nines.’

‘After Eights. I can’t believe you’ve never had them, actually. They’re divine.’

‘You must obey me on this!’

‘Oh, Pylyp,’ she said, laughing a little. ‘You’ve gone all masterful. It’s quite a turn-on. Anyway, don’t worry, I’m taking good care of your little pet.’

‘He is not pet. He is best friend of me. We are like the poets, Byron and Shelley. Locked in the eternal embrace.’

‘As it happens, I’m growing rather fond of him,’ said Beverley. ‘Honestly, when you gave him to me, I didn’t know how I was going to cope. But I’ve started to understand why you’re so fond of him. He’s very loyal, isn’t he? He follows me everywhere I go, although, of course, if I leave the room it takes him so long to get out that I’m already back before he can make it to the door. And he causes no fuss. George nearly sat on him last night, though.’

‘What?’ cried Pylyp.

‘Nearly,’ said Beverley, waving her hands in the air. ‘I said nearly. I shouted at him before he landed on the sofa. Anyway, when will you be home? I need you.’

‘I am not sure. My mother—’

On cue, the sound of wailing rose from the room behind him and he turned around for a moment, shouting something out in Ukrainian.

‘What on earth was that?’ asked Beverley.

‘Is my mother.’

‘It sounded like a goat being castrated.’

‘No, we do not do that in house. It was definitely her. Is eleven fourteen in morning. And she always starts crying at eleven fourteen.’

‘Any particular reason?’

‘This is when my father collapses and finds out that he is dead. Is strange bizarrity, but she spends entire life complaining about him, telling everyone what shit man he is, but now that he rots into the corpse, she says she cannot think of the life without him. Maybe she misses having someone to kick around.’