He shrugs. ‘I’m often up late.’

I remember his escapade a few weeks ago when our neighbour found him in his kitchen at five-thirty in the morning. I wonder how often our son – our ten-year-old son – slips out in the middle of the night undetected and roams the darkened streets.

‘I don’t think Stacey’s very sad about Felix going missing,’ Peter says.

‘No,’ I say. ‘I don’t think she is, either.’

‘Maybe it’s a good thing he’s gone.’

‘Yes. Maybe it is.’

There’s something about my son that’s different today. It takes me a moment to realise what’s missing: I’ve become so used to his hostility it feels odd to be in his company without it, as if I’ve walked into a room that’s been subtly rearranged, the chairs moved or a painting changed. I know the respite is temporary, and that the barrier between us could come up as quickly as it went down: I need to take advantage of the brief detente.

I sit on the bed next to him. ‘Is there something you want to talk about?’ I ask, careful not to sound as if I care.

Peter doesn’t reply, and for a minute I think I’ve overplayed my hand.

‘Do you remember Mr Tipps?’ he asks suddenly.

For a second I can’t place the name. ‘The school rabbit?’ I say, as I finally make the connection.

‘He bit me,’ Peter says. ‘I just wanted to give him a cuddle. He was so soft and warm. I could feel his heart beating under my hand. I squeezed him, and he bit me!’

It’s the first time he’s mentioned Mr Tipps in years.

My son looks at me, and his amber eyes are filled with competing emotions: hurt, outrage, confusion and frustration.

‘Is that why you put Mr Tipps in the dishwasher?’ I ask.

‘He made me angry,’ Peter says. ‘I was just trying to love him and he hurt me. So I hurt him back.’

My gaze rests briefly on Peter’s shelf of broken things.

‘You pushed Meddie out of the window because she made you angry, too,’ I say, as the pieces fall into place. ‘She teased you, and so you hurt her back. But what about Archie? What did he do?’

‘He was such a baby,’ Peter says scornfully. ‘He made Stacey cross. He was embarrassing her.’

‘He’s her son,’ I say. ‘She loves him.’

‘She doesn’t. She told me. She likes me better.’

‘You know you can’t hurt everyone who hurts you,’ I say.

‘Why not?’

‘Because it takes too much time,’ I say.