His mother was watching TV in the living room. She was curled up under one of the soft pink blankets that used to live in the spare room. Her hair was lank and she was wearing one of Dad’s old T-shirts. She’d been watching the news and then some programme about fishing had come on. She hadn’t bothered to change the channel.

‘I’m going out now, Mum,’ Quinn said, coming around the side of the sofa and sitting down next to her. ‘OK?’

‘Where are you going?’ she said, slowly lifting her gaze to his face.

‘To the youth club in Kentish Town; Bambers. There’s a party, remember?’ he said softly. He’d put on a clean white shirt. He’d washed and ironed it himself. ‘Do you want me to ask Mrs Penny to look in on you while I’m out?’

Mrs Penny was a nice northern lady in her fifties who lived on one of the high-rise estates near the park. Once a week she cleaned the house, laundered the bedclothes and did a weekly food shop for them.

‘You look so grown-up, Quinn, so handsome,’ she said, stroking his face. ‘You’ll need to start shaving soon.’

‘I’m fourteen tomorrow, Mum, I already shave,’ he said, letting her leave her hand on his face.

On the sofa next to her, he noticed she’d got the russet-coloured wedding album out again. This was never a good sign.

‘Mum, you’re not making yourself upset again are you?’ he said softly, nodding towards the album.

She covered the album with a sofa cushion.

‘Just thinking about happier times,’ she said flatly, her eyes pensive and still.

Quinn walked around her, picked up the album and went to put it back on the highest bookshelf he could reach. ‘Never give your heart away, Quinn, because you don’t get it back, you know,’ she said, staring up at the ceiling.

She often said things like this to him. Quinn had already decided that if this was what it did to people, he didn’t want anything to do with love.

‘OK, Mum, I’m going now.’

‘You’ll keep your phone on?’ she asked, a note of anxiety creeping into her voice. ‘And you’ll take the spare, just in case?’

‘Yes and yes,’ said Quinn, tapping both sides of his jeans. He hated how they bulked out his pockets.

‘And you won’t put your drink down; you know how easily people spike drinks these days?’

He needed to leave before she talked herself out of letting him go.

On the street, Quinn felt the stifling atmosphere of the house dissipate into the cool night air. He felt free for a moment, though he knew he was not. Sometimes it felt as though he was under house arrest. His phones were like those electronic tags – he could go outside the prison walls but he was still permanently connected.