Dad looks surprised for a second. Then he slaps the top of the portable, throws his head back and laughs. We both laugh. I laugh until I start to cough. I taste the blood from my lip. Then we laugh some more.

Afterwards, Dad says, ‘Shall we go out? Do you think you’ll be OK? I was thinking we could go out. Pub lunch. A treat. Would you like to? We could, if you want.’

When I stand up he stops gabbling and stares. Then he covers his mouth with one hand and screws up his eyes and looks like he might burst. He puts his free arm round my shoulder. Brings me in close. His chest heaves. I smell him beneath the Blue Stratos. A smell like fresh mud. A Dad smell.

Phlegm rattles in my throat. Dad puts both arms round me.

‘Lemonade? Good for colds. Best thing. Vitamin C.’

‘Coke,’ I say. ‘No ice.’

It’s warm in the pub. Even with my blocked nose, I can smell the fug. Unwashed carpets, spilled beer, fag ends, old chip fat. I like it.

While Dad’s at the bar, I go to the loo. The doors are thick with paint. There’s grime around every handle. The window’s open and it’s freezing. Artificial flowers, grey with dust, shiver in the breeze.

I sit on the bog and the seat’s so cold it burns my bum. There’s no lock. I get a bit of pee on one hand because I have to keep the other on the door in case anyone comes in.

When I’m done, I stand at the sink and look in the mirror. Someone’s scraped ‘I LOVE COCK’ into the paint beneath. Only too much paint has chipped off and it looks more like ‘I LOVE COOK.’

My face is as yellow as my hair. My nose is as red as my Scarlet Fever lipstick.

I take the end of my lipstick brush and scrape Shane’s name into the paint, underlining it, twice.

Then I fish my can of Elnett out of my bag, spray, and go back to the bar.

Dad’s sitting at a corner table, fingering a wilted menu. ‘Hi,’ he says, as if we didn’t arrive together and it’s the first time he’s seen me today.

‘Hi.’

‘They do everything in here. Burgers. Sausage. Steak Pie. Chicken Kiev. Scampi.’

‘I’m not very hungry.’

‘Feed a cold, starve a fever. You should eat something.’

‘Maybe I’ve got a fever.’

A woman with crystal drop earrings and a red mouth puckered like an x is staring at us from the bar. She twiddles an empty glass round in one hand. The slice of lemon inside flops from one side to the other.