Thomas sat down in the family room, holding the phone receiver and told himself that, for fuck’s sake, a hundred years ago people emigrated at his age. They lied about their date of birth and joined up and fought in the First World War at his age. It wasn’t that big a fucking deal. At school they were always talking about resilience, developing resilience, Duke of Edinburgh and all that crap. This was a Duke of Edinburgh. He should get a Duke of Edinburgh for this.

Making plans, he decided to ring a doctor in the morning about Ella. And at least now he knew that on or off the medication, Moira was a feckless prick. He was holding the phone receiver so that he could get to it before Moira. He’d been holding it for so long that the cold metal handset was body temperature now.

Theresa wasn’t bothered about talking to him. She’d have called by now if she was. He still really wanted her to phone and speak to Moira though, wanted her to break the news to Moira that she wasn’t that fucking special. She wasn’t so fucking chosen that she could ignore a twelve-year-old having a breakdown and pack her off to school or to watch a movie.

He stood up, went into the hall, and found the jacket he’d worn this morning. In the inside pocket, folded in two, was the stiff embossed memo from Lars’s desk and it had Theresa’s address and number on it. He stopped at the bottom of the stairs, listening. No noise from Ella’s room. Moira’s television was still on, still loud.

Tiptoeing for no reason, he snuck down to the freezer room, put the light on and sat in whirring warm as he dialed the number.

He listened as it rang out, his heart beating loudly in his throat. It was answered by a boy. “Yeah?”

Thomas opened his mouth but the words took a moment to form. “Is this Phils?”

“Yeah. Who’s this?”

“Thomas Anderson.”

They listened to each other breathing for a while, half brothers, each waiting for the other to say something. Phils pulled the phone from his mouth and said in a drawly posh-twit voice, “Mummy, it’s that boy—the son.”

Theresa took the phone. Her voice was clipped. “How did you get this number?”

He looked at the card. “I 1471’d it last night.”

“To what end?”

He didn’t know what she meant. She was like a different person. He’d meant to make conversation, ask how her day had gone, work up to politely wondering aloud why she hadn’t phoned Moira. He’d meant to give her an excuse, maybe she was feeling too tired to phone? Not to worry, she could call tomorrow.

“To what end, Thomas? What are you up to?”

“Nothing really, you said you’d call my mum…”

“Her? Why would I call her?”

“Well, I don’t know, you said you’d call—”

“A woman,” she sounded furious, “so wrapped up in herself that she was complicit in the sexual abuse of a child?”

For a moment Thomas thought Phils had been abused, by Lars, but it made no sense. “What are—”

“Did you or did you not fuck your nanny?”

It sounded as if she was talking to someone else, as if she was someone else. But she was waiting for an answer.

“Theresa?”

“Do you or do you not know Mary Morrison?”

“Nanny Mary?”

“And she fucked you, didn’t she? She says Lars ordered her to. That he threatened her if she didn’t. What kind of people are you? Don’t ever call here again.” She hung up.

Thomas stared at the floor, the phone still on his ear, listening to the burr of the dialing tone. What the hell had happened?

He ran through their parting—had he done something to offend her? Had he said something about himself, something about Lars that was shocking? She’d said Lars was a bit of a prick and he just agreed. Well, actually he didn’t agree but he didn’t stand up for him either. Maybe that was it. Maybe she expected him to disagree. Maybe she was disappointed about that. He thought of her lovely messy hall and her nice round tits and was sorry for whatever it was he had done.

She quoted Nanny Mary. Nanny Mary must have gone to her house and told her that stuff, chasing a payment, but it was utter bullshit. Lars might have paid her to fuck him but he wouldn’t threaten her. And he was fifteen years old, he wasn’t a child.

He got up and turned the light off. As he climbed up into the kitchen the phone rang again.

“Hello?”

Theresa, still crisp and unfriendly. “Look,” she said, “I’ve been having a think. We’ve got to get this sorted out.”

“No one threatened Mary.”

“You’re a child, Thomas.”

“I’m fifteen years old.”

“You’re still just a child.”

“Yeah.” He thought of her today, putting the baseball bat down, linking arms and brushing her nipples across him as they walked along the road. “Didn’t stop you shaking your tits at me this morning, did it?”

She paused at that, kind of acknowledged it, and spoke confidentially. “It makes your mother sound very bad indeed, all that Mary stuff. So far she’s come off as the victim, but if people knew…”

“And, plus, you were going to hit me with a baseball bat before you realized you knew me, how does that fit with me being a poor little kid?”

She heard the steel in his voice and shouted, “Phils and Betsy are not going to be pulled out of their schools, you can bet on that.”

“I never said they should—”

“And I want a share of the proceeds of the house.”

“Which house?”

“The one you’re standing in.”

Thomas had told her they were going to sell. He saw suddenly that she’d been pumping him for information all morning. She’d been saying how funny it was that everything had changed, where would they holiday now? Where were the children going to school now? Would he study abroad, when he went to uni? She’d even sympathized when he said they only had the Piper left. She probably knew Nanny Mary before, knew all that stuff, was working him from the beginning.

“Tell your mother that she’ll be hearing from my solicitor in due course.”

“Tell her your fucking self, Thereesa,” he said, and hung up.

He dropped the receiver on the worktop and stepped away, staring at it. Bitch. A fucking bitch. Sarah Erroll had died in her place and it was her fucking fault, all of it.

What else had he told her? He didn’t know what he was doing, he couldn’t look after Ella or worry about Squeak, he didn’t have a clue what he was doing. Looking up at the high ceiling he felt defeat creeping through him like a chill. He was just a kid. He didn’t know what he was doing. His loss was private now but soon, when she went to a lawyer and the papers heard, it would all be made public. Stander.

Panicked, he went upstairs to his mother. Her television was still on but he tiptoed past Ella’s door and knocked gently. Abruptly, the television fell silent and the light snapped off under the door.

Thomas tried the handle and found it open. He didn’t look in, afraid she might be naked or something.

“Moira?” he whispered.

After a long while she answered, faking a sleeping voice, “Hmm?”

“Ella’s…asleep now.”

Moira was determined to see the pretend-sleep through. “Wha…? What are you saying, darling?”

Theresa had spent the morning smiling and sharking around him for information. He honestly believed she liked him. Moira couldn’t even tell a convincing lie about being asleep.

Angry, he reached in and turned on the light.

Moira was fully clothed, sitting on top of the bed with an ashtray on her lap and a curl of smoke snaking out of it. He was surprised. He didn’t know she smoked. He forgot what he meant to say for a moment.

She smiled weakly. “I must have nodded off…”

“Ella’s asleep.”

She tried to smile but it looked really bitter. “As should you be.” She said it like a mother in a story book.

“What’s Ella got?”

She seemed surprised, as if she hadn’t noticed really.

“She’s nuts,” he said carefully. “What is it she’s got?”

“Ella’s…nervous.”

“She’s really not well.”

Moira grinned, her eyes slipped his and then came back, her smile sadder than before. She was trying hard. He could see that she was trying and she’d been on a high dose for a long time.

Thomas wanted to tell her everything. A woman died in Scotland. Ella is floridly nuts. Theresa is Dad’s other wife. She is a shark. She is not stupid. She has round tits and handsome children. She will eat you alive while we watch and I cannot save you because I am a child.

But he didn’t say those things. Instead he said what Moira wanted and needed to hear: “Good night, Mum.”

A warm grateful smile broke over her face and she slid down a little in the bed. “Good night, darling.”

Carefully, Thomas shut the door and stood alone in the dark hall.