And then, God's turn. It was late afternoon in the kitchen with Gareth. We were finishing early and, gamefully, decided to wind down together over a mug of tea. He spoke of his sister back in Wales, his mother. As a militant homosexual, he had disowned his family twenty years ago, their disapproval clearly too painful. However, it transpires that someone with a Welsh telephone number has been trying to contact him so now, aware that his mother or father could have died, Gareth is unsure what to do. With all my height and girth, I wanted to bear down on him and say, with the force of self evident heterosexual and patriarchal truth that, you call back. You just call back.  But instead, with an ache in my heart for Thom, I found a more poetic and, seemingly, gentler response. Look, you've been walking away from your family all these years. If one of them has died, you'll be running from them. Gareth smarted, but stood his ground. Initially,  in the silence that followed, it felt as if our heads were banging against each other. As the feeling eased off, I began to wonder if we would soon be talking about the crucial subject of the availability, or otherwise, of my room. But no, Gareth really was elsewhere. It's good about Helen, he said, she seems happy. I let that fall between us...Was it possible that Gareth was jealous, possibly as much as me?  Was I going to bond with him over it...? Or was he goading me into, what, a racial transgression...? I tapped the phone in my pocket. Clearly some messages were coming through...Within two minutes I was on the A27, the fast road home, doubling back past the station until, WHAT THE FUCKING FUCK ARE YOU FUCKING.....?

I slammed the brakes.

Six of them standing in a circle. Anywhere from twelve to sixteen, all hair and trousers and pale, ironed faces. Smoking cannabis was surely the most animated activity they'd ever known. They smoked, puckering their lips like girls. And while Thom was not the smallest member of the gang, he was surely the youngest and so, while not the runt, he was still WHAT THE FUCKING FUCK WAS HE DOING

I slung open the back door, smiling at all of them, especially Thom...And docile, too, like he'd always been expecting me to turn up after four months of no contact and pick him off the streets for a few chips and movie. He got into the car, as if it were yesterday.