“Let me look at it,” she said.

Standing up, she moved authoritatively to the medical box they kept in the kitchen cupboard and then over to him, where she held out her hand and, to her surprise, he placed his own within it. Unwrapping the towel, Veronica noticed again how small this boy was, how skinny and light, a fact that seemed cloaked by the bulky mass of shadow that emanated from him. When she reached his hand, she could have been holding a small bundle of twigs, easily shattered. She looked closely at his injured finger. The cut was deep, the skin either side still separate, but the blood had begun at last to congeal. It clearly had not been washed but the towel was thick with an unfathomable amount of blood and she was afraid of water starting it off again, so instead she applied a hefty blob of antiseptic, then placed a gauze over the wound and wrapped it carefully. Still the boy said nothing, but he turned his finger over as if to admire her work, and Veronica felt a sudden surge of gladness, usefulness. “Careful next time,” she smiled. “Cutting potatoes.”

At this, Dominic half-smiled back at her. He lifted his eyes and again she was struck by the intensity of them, the darkness that hid within. She found herself wondering what he had wanted, coming to her home so late at night. Perhaps he was in danger – should she be calling somebody? Social services? The police? Or perhaps he’d needed somebody to confide in. Or maybe he just needed somebody to bandage his hand. Clearly he needed something.

Fixing.

There was a sudden surge in Veronica’s chest.

“Are you alright, Dominic?” she asked again, pointedly this time, an unbidden image of saintliness trickling its way into her mind.

But his smile dissolved. “Thanks for this,” he said, holding up his hand and standing to leave.

“Are you going home?” she queried. “It sounds like there’s quite a gathering tonight. Is Mum there?”

“Yeh,” he nodded.

“You can stay here for a while, if you like,” she urged.

But he was already at the door, already not listening, already somewhere else. “Yeh.”

And then he was gone, out into the night, hovering for a full minute on his own doorstep before pushing open the door to a roar of trance music and other adult things.

“Did I hear the door go?” George spoke sleepily, removing one of his earplugs as in socked feet Veronica crept into the bedroom. “Not that you can really hear anything with this racket going on.”

“It was just me trying to lock up. The latch is playing up still.” For some reason, Veronica had decided not to tell George about Dominic, and his queries irritated her. She turned away.

George half sat up against his pillow, cradling his earplugs in his hand. “We need to do something,” he said.

“I’ll call the builders tomorrow.”

“Not about that, about this.” Veronica looked at him and he nodded towards the wall that adjoined the neighbours’ flat. Dominic’s return had clearly done nothing to quiet the din or bring the gathering there to a close. “We can’t go on ignoring it,” George said. “It’s our lives, our wellbeing. We’ve put everything into this house, into making it a family home, and we’re blighted constantly by an ignoramus who doesn’t work, doesn’t give a thought to anyone but himself, screams at his family, must be on drugs otherwise I don’t know how he raves till God knows what hour in the morning, and ruins our lives. He’s not going to just stop. We need to do something.”