Bright Burning Things(49)

‘Sonya, it’s very early.’ His tongue sounds thick with tiredness.

‘Sorry. Can’t sleep. Need to know which pound you put Herbie into.’

‘Wait a minute, can you?’

I hear him rustling about, careful not to wake Lara beside him. Sound of his footsteps padding downstairs, then the tap gushing.

‘What did you say, Sonya? Are you aware it’s not even six a.m.?’

‘It’s my new regime. Where did you leave Herbie?’

‘A decent sort I know from golf took him in.’

‘Can you give me his number?’

‘I thought you’d be glad that the dog has found stability.’

‘Dad. Please give me this man’s number. I need to get Herbie back.’

He whistles through his teeth. ‘Have you been drinking, Sonya? You sound wired.’

‘I’m not going to even dignify that with a response. The number, Dad?’

‘Let me call him later, at a reasonable hour, and see what he has to say.’

‘Dad?’ I can feel a hot fiery FUCK YOU forming in my mouth, but I suck it back down and say sweetly, ‘You’re the best.’

He grunts, sips his recently poured brew and says, ‘I’ll call you after I’ve managed to make contact.’

‘It will be so good for Tommy to have his best pal at home, when he returns.’

‘I’m not promising anything…’

‘I know you’ll do your best. For Tommy. Thank you. Chat later?’ I disconnect, congratulate myself on my astounding acting, until I notice the kitten staring at me disconsolately, mewling in the corner.


Tea and toast and marmalade jam, tea and toast and marmalade jam, tea and toast and marmalade jam. Yummy sunny oranges in a jar, Yaya! Three rounds, before showering, dressing ‘appropriately’: contrite sober mother part, over-the-knee skirt and high-necked polo, hair scraped back. The tea makes me piss, which is good. Force glass after glass of water down me, hoping this will be sufficient to clear out any remnants of booze from my system. David calls to wish me luck.


Maureen is a big, buxom woman, though not maternal, as her body would suggest. There’s an impenetrable wall around her, a cast-iron casing around her heart. I admire her bullshit-proof bearing, and instinctively know not to lay it on too thick. We exchange a few curt pleasantries before she offers me tea. My fourth of the day so far. The building is surprisingly bright and cheerful, freshly painted with excellent fake plants dotted around. I run my fingers over their leaves to make sure they are not, in fact, the real thing. The air smells of synthetic lavender, gentle background music wafting, not muzak – Satie, I think.

The conversation moves along well-worn tracks: how did you get on in rehab, do you think you’re fit to take Tommy back into the house, are you open to home visits? Will you breathe into this for me? The question, when it comes, though expected, is an affront. I nod and blow. I hold my breath as Maureen reads the results. She says nothing, her face remains impassive. I know better than to ask; the story is that I haven’t touched a drop since first going into recovery. My pulse thrums loudly in my throat, please, please, please let there be no alcohol left in my system. There’s no mention of a court hearing, which has to be good. I tell her that it was my wish that Tommy went to his grandfather – an unfortunate situation, I explain, and rather badly handled on my father’s part, as there are no other family members who could’ve taken him.

‘Are relations that strained in your family?’

I think about that. I don’t know if I have any cousins; I don’t know if Aunty Amy is dead or alive, or indeed Dom. I don’t know where Dom is. I hope he’s ok.

‘My mum died young and I never knew her parents’ – the first time I’ve said that out loud – ‘and my mother’s only sister didn’t get on with my stepmother, and my father stopped talking to my uncle.’

Maureen looks at me in a way I can’t read. Does she think I’m a liar, an attention-seeker, an actress?

‘So you can see why I felt my father should’ve taken Tommy.’

‘Your father expressed regret that he couldn’t manage the boy, but he said he exhibited some behavioural concerns.’

I feign nonchalance. What the hell did he say?

‘Do you know about his fascination with fire?’

I think of his face lit up by the flames that night, his enthralment with anything bright and burning. Mr Sunshine, Mr Flickering Fire. Has this built to something more dangerous? Is my little boy a potential arsonist? I almost laugh; he’s not yet five. And still.

‘I know he likes to look at bright, flickering things. He’s like his mother in that way.’

‘Did he ever try to set anything on fire before?’

‘No. He just liked to watch it.’

‘And you let him?’

‘Only under supervision.’

‘What about when you were blacked-out?’

Maureen’s reading from a report. Penned by whom? There is no psychiatric report on me, as far as I am aware.

‘I never left Tommy alone in a room with a lighter.’

‘Did you teach him to strike a match?’

‘No, I don’t keep matches in the house.’

Maureen checks her watch, clears the bundles of paper on her desk.