Mum has a stegosaurus who sings when you press its belly and Dad has a pterodactyl stress toy, which, he says, will come in handy when he’s fighting Mum over who does the washing-up.

And when we’ve finished, we sit up and drink our Diet Cokes and talk and laugh and pretend that we’re a real family in a real restaurant. And it makes me feel that little bit more real myself.

‘So is Monday night going to be McDonald’s night from now on?’ I ask Dad.

He pats his belly. ‘I don’t think I have the stomach for that.’

Mum gathers up all the rubbish and whispers in my ear, ‘Looks like he does to me.’

48

Rowan

And now I am walking through town with Rowan, dodging shoppers with heavy bags and people riding skateboards on the pavement.

The streets throb with people, like we’re inside the artery of a giant grey heart. We skirt round toddlers who are tied to their parents by reins. We stumble into a bollard to avoid a family with their noses pressed against a restaurant window, looking at a menu. We duck and we dodge and we speed up and we slow down.

‘Where are we going?’

‘Oh, hey!’

I shout into my earphone mic.

‘My boss Sue needs

some money paying into the bank.

Thought you’d like to come for the ride.’

I’m not sure she can see much

with all these tourists infest the place.

It’s not at all like Tokyo, and not just because I’m not being helicoptered around. The shopfronts are salt-stained and don’t buzz with screens showing worlds within worlds. They’re closed off from the street by doors and don’t come spilling out into the crowds. I distantly remember parts of it from when I’d go shopping with Mum, but not enough for me to know exactly where I am. It’s like walking through the memory of an old dream.

Rowan turns to avoid a kid on a scooter and I can see now why all the people have been pushed to the sides.

In the middle is a valley of cars.

On one side of the road, the cars sit bumper to bumper, chugging out smoke and glinting like silver teeth. The other side is clear until a red sports car thunders up, rattling the shop windows with a guttering roar.

My chest tightens.

‘Is there a quieter route?’

I can see the bank at the top of the road. But.

‘Sure.’

I duck down a side street.

I still feel like I’m choking.

‘Not a fan of people either, eh?’

‘It’s not the people,’ I gasp. ‘It’s the cars.’

Cars that stop people altogether.

I know there’s a car park ahead this way.

So I turn right, down an alley with overflowing bins and

half-stolen bikes and

trainers wrapped round overhead wires.