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couple. There was no answer when I knocked the front door, so I pushed open the letterbox and peered inside.
    â€˜Hullo?’
    A woman appeared in the hall, widescreened by the rectangular flap. She was pretty in a brittle sort of way, bottle-blond hair secured by a banana clip in a high ponytail that pulled the skin so tight it could’ve been a facelift.
    â€˜Hello there,’ she said as she opened the door, willowy and clean in a pale blue summer dress. She looked me up and down with cat-green eyes. I cleared my throat and tried to look as harmless as possible. Parents are easily fooled. All you need are manners.
    â€˜I’m John,’ I said. ‘A friend of Jamey’s.’
    My voice had gone up a semitone of its own accord.
    â€˜Ah, yes.’ Her eyes twinkled a bit. ‘Come in. I’m Deirdre. Dee for short.’
    Deirdre—Dee—spoke over her shoulder as I wiped my feet on the doormat.
    â€˜I’m glad Jamey’s made a friend here,’ she said. ‘I was worried he’d never settle in.’
    She called up the stairs and turned and put her hand on my arm.
    â€˜I’m sorry, but I’ve forgotten your name already. You must think I’m awful rude.’
    â€˜John.’
    â€˜Of course.’
    A door opened upstairs, you could hear what sounded like cartoon music for the insane, screeching and caterwauling, and Jamey came down the steps two at a time.
    â€˜Hey worm-boy,’ he said loudly.
    Dee’s brow wrinkled at the nickname. She released her grip on my arm and rubbed her forehead lightly as if to smooth the creases. She was about to say something, thought the better of it, gave her head a little twitch, like whatever had occurred to her was a midge that needed shaking off.
    â€˜â€˜Scuse me,’ she said, moving towards the kitchen. ‘I’ve dinner on.’
    Jamey was in his stocking feet. He looked at my runners.
    â€˜Did she not ask you to take your shoes off?’
    â€˜No.’
    He exhaled through his nose.
    Their kitchen was bright and airy. The counter gleamed and all the appliances looked shiny and new. It didn’t smell like my house. It smelled of no smell at all, anodyne.
    Jamey spooned instant coffee into a couple of mugs, poured the milk and stirred it all into a paste before adding boiling water from the kettle. His mother bustled about collecting keys and things.
    â€˜I have to pick up your brother,’ she said. ‘I’ll be back in a few minutes.’
    She gave Jamey a look as she hurried out. ‘Try to keep the noise down.’
    There was a constant push and pull going on between Jamey and his mother, an undertow. I noticed it even that first day. The things they said to each other were like the tips of jagged ice floes, only a fraction of the true mass apparent.
    Jamey handed me a cup with a picture of Lady Di on it.
    â€˜Come on up,’ he said, jerking his head.
    Thick carpet muffled our footsteps on the stairs and landing. Their whole house looked like it had been serviced by one of those domestic robots you’d see in some futuristic film where a master computer wakes you up with chilled-out classical music, makes your morning coffee and puts water on for the shower. The walls had a fresh paint job and the laundry was stacked neatly in a hamper, no stray socks or shoes strewn about. I felt like a walking rubbish heap just being there.
    Jamey pushed open his bedroom door with his foot, and I felt somehow reassured by the state of his room. It was even messier than my own. Piles of books and tapes were stacked in columns beside a stereo. The blinds were drawn and there was a glittery purple scarf draped on a lamp.
    â€˜I like to keep it dark in here,’ Jamey said. ‘The summer doesn’t agree with my constitution.’
    He set his cup on the windowsill beside his bed and waved a hand at a stack of old vinyl albums.
    â€˜You’re the DJ.’
    I didn’t