Norman raised his head and slowly smiled at me and, for a glorious moment, there was my boy again.

“Don’t worry about it, Mum.” Of course he’s going to do it.

“Of course I’m going to do it.” I know. “Do you remember what Jax used to say?” Norman stared out into another universe somewhere over my shoulder. “That when you’re scared to do something, even if everything’s going to hell in a handbasket you should just think about the worst thing that could possibly happen and then get in there and have a go anyhow. Remember?”

I remembered. I braced myself on the rickety wooden fence, because it felt a bit like the ground was moving toward me.

“And Mum, don’t you see?” He turned to face me and a wobbly smile attempted a run at the corners of his mouth. “The worst thing already happened. Everything already went to hell in a handbasket, so it’s all got to be okay from now on, because nothing else could ever, ever be that bad. You don’t have to worry about me, Mum, honest.”

Look after Mum.

I felt the world slow down and grind to a halt as I looked into my son’s eyes and realized with absolute clarity what I’d been too blinded by my own sadness to notice since Jax had died. Norman was so much braver than I would ever be.

I pressed the ball of one hand into my stomach to dull the tingling around the edges of my scar and heard a faraway voice that might have been mine.

“Okay, Norman.”

38

THE THING ABOUT a place as old as Edinburgh is that a decade and spare change doesn’t really make much difference. Heading up George Street in the Austin at gone midnight, it felt like I’d just nipped out for a quick thirteen-year trip to the supermarket. Everything looked exactly the same, and here was I, just another speck of historical dust blown back into town by mistake. Welcome back, you meaningless speck of dust.

Luckily, in a rare moment of forethought, I’d made sure I booked our accommodation in Edinburgh before we did anything else, because, call me genius, but I’d had an inkling that finding a place to stay during the busiest week of the year might be a little difficult. I’d still had virtually zero choice by then, but with the assistance of Leonard’s superior Googling skills, we’d managed to find an obscure private owners’ website offering what I’m pretty sure was the last room in the last place that could conceivably call itself the city.

Discover your home away from home in Edinburgh at the Soft Fudge Guesthouse, the listing had enticed. Righto, then. Don’t mind if we do, I’d thought. Sounds delicious. There’d only been one room available to book at the Soft Fudge, but from the photos it looked like, in addition to the double bed, there was an alcove with a very wide upholstered window seat, which Leonard had insisted he’d be more than happy to sleep on.