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Each visit, Cassian took the stool, drank the thermos tea and collected these fragments the way he used to collect good words from his reading lessons with Colin.

By June, the mismatched frame collection had migrated from a stack beside his wardrobe to the wall of his bedroom at Ledbury Road. Diwa had hung them in a rough grid, empty, and called it an art installation. Cassian thought they looked nice that way.

He was sitting on the stool on a bright Tuesday morning, holding his ninth frame, an Art Deco number with bevelled edges knocked down to twenty-five quid for a chipped corner, when Morty leaned on his display table.

“Your baker’s coaching now. Did I tell you?”

Cassian’s thumb found the chip in the frame’s corner. “You didn’t.”

“Youth programme. Saturdays, after the five-a-side. His old mate from Villa pulled him in — Mason somebody. The lads love him, apparently. He’s got patience with the young ones. Big man like that, crouching down to their level, showing them how to plant their standing foot. You wouldn’t think it, with his size, but—”

Cassian’s mobile rang.

He fished it from his jacket pocket, saw ALISON WARD on the screen, and the market noise dropped away as though someone had pressed mute.

“I have to take this,” Cassian said, standing, pressing the frame into Morty’s hands and reaching for the green button. “Morty, I’m sorry, I have to—”

“Go on, love. I’ll keep this one warm for you.”

Cassian put the mobile to his ear. “Hi, Alison.”

“Cassian.” She was speaking at half her usual speed. “Are you with Colin or Diwa?”

“No, I’m outside.” He pressed his thumb into the scar on his wrist. “Why?”

“Can you get home to them? I’m happy to talk to you now if you’d prefer, but if you’re comfortable having one of them in the room while we speak, that might be for the best.”

Alison Ward did not make suggestions or give options. She made demands of him, and billed for it. “I’ll go home,” Cassian said. “Can you give me fifteen minutes? I’ll call you back.”

“Of course, Cass. Fifteen minutes.”

He was already walking, Portobello Road blurring past him.

Chapter Thirty-Five

Colin was in the kitchen with Tala on his hip when Cassian came in at a speed that made them both flinch.

“Alison rang,” Cassian said, breathless, one hand braced on the doorframe. “She wants to talk. She told me to come home first to be with you and Diwa, Colin, which means it’s—”

“Sit down.”

Cassian sat. His knee bounced against the underside of the table and rattled Tala’s sippy cup.

“D’you want Tala on, or off you?”

Cassian blinked at him. Why was that even a question? “On,” he said, waggling his fingers in a gimme gesture that Tala answered by lunging forward with both arms outstretched and a shriek.

Colin lowered her into Cassian’s lap, where she immediately seized two fistfuls of his hoodie and began the process of scaling his chest. Cassian tucked an arm under her and took his mobile from his pocket with the other.

“Put it on speaker,” Colin instructed.

Cassian dialled. Alison picked up before the second ring.

“Cassian? Are you home now?”

“Yes. Colin’s here, and Tala. You’re on speaker.”

“Good.” Papers rustled at her end, a stack being squared. “I’m going to take you through what the Commission has decided, and then I’m going to tell you what it means for you specifically. If you need me to stop at any point, or have any questions, just say so.”