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Jumped on a train, with no money for the fare, and hidden in the toilet all the way to London. Hitchhiked. Whatever. He grabbed his shoes—Flip’s shoes—from the stand in the hall and sat on the bottom stair to pull them on. As soon as he was out that door, he would just keep going, walk the streets all night if he must. He didn’t care.
    Which was when Flip’s mum appeared at the end of the hallway. “Ah, there you are.” She was wearing a kimono—scarlet, with a gold dragon motif. “Tea’s about half an hour away, so don’t take Beags too far, will you?”
    “Sorry?”
    “I’ll fetch you a sandwich bag.”
    She disappeared down the basement stairs to the kitchen. A lead dangled from one of the key hooks by the front door. Was this what Flip did each evening, walk the dog? The woman returned with a plastic bag (for poo?).
    He didn’t have to do this. He wasn’t Flip. Beagle wasn’t his dog. If he chose to, Alex could simply walk out without a word and go where he pleased.
    “Your sister ,” the woman said, eyes raised ceilingwards. That music was still playing, pulsing through the house like some monstrous heartbeat. “I’m surprised she has any eardrums left.” Then, turning a smile on Alex. “How was school?”
    “Oh, er, you know. Same as always.”
    “Have you done your homework?”
    “Yeah, yeah. Yeah.” Alex gestured upstairs. “That’s what I’ve been—”
    That smile again. She wasn’t having any of it. “After tea, Philip. Okay ?”
    She was in a better mood than she’d been in that morning. She smelled of onions and faintly of something else. Wine. Again, it occurred to him to turn and go. Just walk out. But he couldn’t. He looked into her face, and he couldn’t do it. She might not have been his mother, but she was a mother.
    “I’m …” He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry.”
    The woman frowned. “For what?”
    “This morning.”
    “Oh.” She appeared taken aback. “Oh, well, it’s all a bit fraught first thing.”
    “No,” Alex said. “You didn’t deserve it. The way I behaved. The stuff I said.”
    He thought Flip’s mum was about to cry. But she didn’t. She gave his arm a squeeze, pecked him on the cheek. Wine, definitely. Red wine. “Go on,” she said, “or you’ll hardly get him out the front door before it’s time to bring him in again.”
    Alex took the lead from the hook. “Where is Beagle?”
    “In the lounge, I expect. Watching the tennis.”
    “Tennis?”
    “First day of Wimbledon,” the woman said, as though the answer was obvious.
    Sure enough, the dog was curled up on a chair, gaze fixed on the TV screen. As the ball pinged back and forth, his eyes followed it. One of the players put a backhand into the net and Beagle let out a sigh, as though disappointed.
    Alex dangled the lead to make it jingle. “Come on, walkies.” The dog lifted his head from the cushion, did the growl thing again. “Are you going to bite me if I try to put this on you?”
    In fact, Beagle did give him a nip, but Alex clipped the lead to his collar all the same and half walked, half dragged him out of the house. The dog kept up a low grumble as they headed side by side down the street.
    You know, don’t you? You’re the only one who knows I’m not Flip .
    * * *
    “Where does he normally take you, Beags?”
    The dog gave him a sidelong look, as though to say, What’s it to you?
    Alex led him randomly around the network of streets in Flip’s neighborhood. After fifteen minutes or so, they emerged onto the main road opposite the station. A cluster of teenagers, male and female, occupied the area around the seat where he’d been collared that morning by Johannsen. Nine hours earlier. It seemed more like nine days, so much had happened in that time. Alex wondered if he ought to know any of the others across the way, or whether they’d call out to him. They didn’t. They observed him; that was all. He made sure to catch no one’s eye. In Crokeham Hill