Police lights strobed blue and red before Jack’s garage. Sergeant Michael Gillan, having returned to work, waited for him, shaking his head when he saw me with him, crunching through ashes and rubble.

‘She’s all right?’ Jack demanded. ‘How’d she get here?’

‘Haven’t got a clue, mate,’ Michael said. ‘You’ll have to ask her.’

I followed Jack inside. On the sofa, in a white cardigan over a pale nightie, Shirley looked casually surprised, as if I were a neighbour popping in for tea. Jack sat beside her. ‘I didn’t know you still had keys.’

Shirley was further puzzled, perhaps trying to work out who he was. She was such a tiny woman, to have given birth to such a tall man! Motherhood was a mystery, even to mothers. At some level, she must have realised something was wrong. She didn’t pull away, although her fingers continued to clutch the handle of a black bag. ‘There’s a policeman here,’ she observed. ‘Have we been burgled?’

‘Everything all right then?’ Michael asked Jack.

‘Everything’s fine. Thanks for calling.’ Jack turned back to his mother.

‘Jack!’ she said. ‘You’ve brought a friend home! I’ll make tea.’

‘You’ve already got tea, Mum. I’ll make more, if you like.’

Shirley stilled, ankles neatly crossed as she picked lumps of fluff from her cardigan.

‘Watch Mum for a moment, will you?’ Jack asked me.

‘Of course.’

Jack walked outside. Through the window, I saw him reach the row of terracotta pots. He raised one, then stood, clutching a small chain of keys. He carried them back inside. Shirley didn’t look up. Her fingers sought woollen lumps more quickly than before; perhaps she was aware of Jack’s mood.

He dropped the keys onto the coffee table. ‘You didn’t forget these, did you?’

Shirley said nothing.

‘Those spare keys were there when we used this place for storage.’

Pluck, pluck, pluck. Shirley dropped a little collection of woollen balls onto the floor. Jack pulled out a dining chair and sat, facing her. ‘Mum?’

Pluck.

He took one hand in each of his. ‘Mum, look at me.’

Shirley raised her face, very tentatively.

‘You can’t come here like this.’

‘Someone took my house. Did you take my house? Where did you put my house?’

Jack sighed. ‘You can come here any weekend. Just ask and I’ll pick you up. But you know about the house, Mum, I told you. There was a fire. I’m going to rebuild.’

‘You’ll put it back?’

Jack nodded.

Confused again, Shirley glanced at me. ‘He’s not good at putting things back. I trip over his Lego all the time.’

Remembering Caleb, young Caleb, and the pain of Lego bricks underfoot, I felt the ridiculous urge to laugh. Shirley found her relationship with her son as mysterious as I found mine. ‘My son, too,’ I said.