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been gone?”
    “Ages.”
    “How long is ages?”
    “Weeks.”
    She sighed, long and gusty, then stood.
    I looked up at her, at a face full of sorrow and a dash of worry. “He took a suitcase. I had to sit on it because it was so full. But he’ll be back. He’s only gone on holiday. He wouldn’t leave me. He’s gone for ice cream. He’ll have nuts on it, raspberry sauce too.”
    “Well,” she said, taking my hand and pulling me to my feet, “regardless of how long he’s been away and whether or not he’s coming back, he shouldn’t have left you alone like this, Alfie.”
    “I’m twelve. I’ve done all right. I can take care of myself.”
    “No, Alfie, you can’t.”
    She took me then, out of our weathered front door and along the cracked path. I kept my head down, glancing sideways at the unkempt front garden, weeds strangling everything in sight. I clutched her hand, my palm sweaty, and sat on the back seat of her car after she’d opened the door so I could get in. I noticed how she locked the door once I had my seatbelt on. When she climbed inside and started the engine, I raised my head and looked at our house.
    I knew I’d never live there again.
    It isn’t that bad, Christian. Honestly. Not as bad as you think. It’s all right.
    Foster care, now that was an experience. Jesus, I’d been told I was going to a place where life would be very different, but they lied. Everyone lies. It was the same as before, except Mr Tabbit called me a cunt instead of John, and his girlfriend, Marilyn Holmes, gave me mouldy toast for breakfast and burnt offerings for my tea. Mr Tabbit—I never did find out his first name—liked to trip me over as I walked past him lounging on the sofa, and man, he’d laugh so hard when I fell and hurt myself. Still, I’d be a trooper, stand like John taught me when Tabbit went on and on, telling me I’d done this or that when I hadn’t. It must have been one of the other kids—and there were quite a few—but none of them admitted it had been them. Stands to reason they wouldn’t. Tabbit was fond of using the stick. My arse felt the brunt of it many times, but hey, they say punishment makes you stronger.
    That’s bullshit as well.
    I stayed there four years. By the time I was sixteen, I’d grown into the size I am now, and when I walked out of that house for the last time after nutting Tabbit in the face, I didn’t look back. With only a backpack to my name and the prospect of going to college and living in a one-bedroom flat the Social had found for me, I had a choice. There was one hell of a lot of anger inside me, as well as hormones and the creeping knowledge that girls weren’t my thing, and at one point I thought I’d use it to fuel my days, going about pissing people off for the fun of it or making a nuisance of myself. But the burning need inside me to get the hell off that track, out of that life, was stronger.
    Not all kids brought up like me turn bad. Mind you, that’s a lie, isn’t it? I’m bad. Keeping you here.
    College kept me sane. I drifted from one relationship to another, every bloke leaving me, saying I was too clingy, didn’t give them space. That my need to show them I cared was the reason they were fucking off. I didn’t get it. Everyone wanted to be loved, didn’t they? Take me and you as an example. You’d say if I was too much, wouldn’t you? I think you’d tell me, you seem that kind of bloke. I’ve never forced myself on you, have I? Always asked before I touched. And you’ve always said yes. I just want to make you feel good, to know how much I care.
    Then maybe you won’t go away.
    Jesus fucking Christ, I sound nuts.
    In the end, with college and university behind me, I got a job in design, working in an office in the city. Big fuck-off place, lots of people. More relationships, more being left. It got so bad I started withdrawing, refusing to go for drinks after work, going home instead to sit alone. I earned good money, so