It was clear her mother’s behaviour had made him leave because all she did was lie on the couch, half sleeping, half watching television. At night, she drank and smoked and talked with whoever was in the house where they were staying at the time. When Simone found her one morning passed out on the floor, her arm draped over another body, the smell of booze, vomit, and urine almost making her gag, Simone could understand exactly why her father had left. The only part she couldn’t understand was why he hadn’t taken her with him.

All this, Paul had learnt from his conversations with Simone and his reading of her case file. Now at sixteen, Simone reminded him of a young Claire – the blonde hair, the slim frame, the blue eyes.

Lovely. Perfect.

Paul left the window and went into the youth centre and as he stood there, relishing the warmth of being indoors, he caught Simone’s eye and winked.

*

‘How do you know all this stuff!’ exclaimed Simone and Paul savoured the rare admiration. They’d been talking about artificial intelligence, a first for Paul with one of the youth club members. Usually, it was football or the next night out.

‘I used to be pretty good in school,’ he replied, noncommittally.

‘How old are you?’ asked Simone, intrigued. For a minute, Paul thought about lying, then decided against it.

‘Forty-three,’ he replied.

‘Yeah, that is old,’ replied Simone with all the nonchalance of a teenager.

‘Thanks!’ replied Paul sarcastically, but he was grinning.

Simone appraised him thoughtfully. ‘You don’t look forty-three if that makes you feel any better.’

‘I don’t?’ said Paul. ‘How old do I look then?’

‘Still old, but maybe thirty-five or something like that.’

‘Thanks, I’ll take it.’

They were sat at the table where Simone was busy sewing two pieces of fabric together. A skirt, apparently.

‘So, what was your favourite subject?’ asked Simone, surprising Paul by returning to their previous conversation.

‘Science,’ replied Paul, trying to ignore the strange longing that shot through him.

‘Urgh! I hate science, especially biology. I hate Mrs Jenkins – she made us dissect a frog. I thought I was going to be sick. And we have our mock exam soon – I’m dreading it.’

Paul felt the flutter of opportunity. But he had to go carefully. ‘Why?’

‘Because I don’t understand any of it – Jenkins makes it all so bloody complicated! And if I skive any more classes, they’ll end up suspending me,’ announced Simone, grabbing her sewing scissors and furiously cutting the fabric. Paul watched as the material sliced in two, her blonde head bent over in concentration.

‘When’s your exam?’