‘Fresh, after all that rain,’ he says.
I look up at the sky, which is dense with cloud, as usual. We walk out into the gravelled driveway, past the tarnished statue of the Virgin Mary with her flaked, aged face and bleeding brown-red lips, past the chicken coop with its rusted barbed-wire fence, hello, cluck-clucks!, past the clusters of smokers, mainly men, gathered outside the kittens’ shed. I look at their lined, thread-veined faces. Even those whose lives are a wrecked shambles have visitors, a kindly sister, a girlfriend, someone they knocked about a bit. Even their children come, some of whom were genuinely at risk.
I can feel David regarding me.
‘Do you have children?’
He looks surprised, caught off guard. ‘No, not yet.’
As usual my insight into other people is uncannily accurate, which, instead of making me feel superior, as it normally does, just depresses me. The overwhelming greyness of the scene around us: the sky, the concrete ground, the crumbling, breeze-block walls. Recently my night-times have been filled with the ghosts of the orphaned children who once lived within these walls, still trapped. They are grey, broken children with blank stares, sometimes wearing Tommy’s face. His hands beating on the window, his face pressed against the pane.
‘This place was once an orphanage,’ I say.
‘Think that might be an old wives’ tale.’
I don’t say anything.
‘Are you experiencing any relief in here, Sonya?’
‘I haven’t touched a drop in thirty-eight days.’
‘And the head?’
The head, my head, what do you mean exactly? You try living with the torture of not knowing where your child is, the callous indifference of that, on the part of someone who is supposed to love you.
As if he can hear my thoughts （I hope I haven’t spoken them aloud; am pretty sure I haven’t）， he says, ‘Sister Anne said she left a message with your father. Seems pretty tough that he hasn’t let you know where the boy is.’
‘It’s raining,’ I say.
He nods, looking towards the sky. Neither of us makes a move to go back inside.
‘Almost refreshing, were it not so fucking relentless,’ I continue.
He laughs, surprising himself.
‘Can I ask you a question?’
He looks at me sideways, suspiciously.
‘I’m curious: is there the same level of relapse in a private facility as in here?’
‘No one has documented that, not that I know.’
‘I bet the price tag puts people off reoffending in a private rehab.’
I can hear how my words are speeding up, becoming garbled.
‘Reoffending? Interesting term, Sonya.’
A warm, giddy feeling is building inside me. ‘It seems every second person I talk to in here has been here before, and not just once.’
‘Do you believe the twelve-step approach works?’ he asks.
Is he trying to draw me into some shared complicity, or is he trying to catch me out?
‘Not sure about the one-size-fits-all philosophy.’
‘Have you found anyone in here you can relate to?’
‘In a way.’ I think of Jimmy and the kittens.
He stops walking, turns and looks in my direction. ‘Unless a person gets honest, it doesn’t matter where they go.’
My body is in his shadow. I look over his shoulder, seeking the light.
He moves away, sits on a mossy wall. I sit beside him. It’s damp.
‘How’s the meditating going?’
How can I tell him that focusing on my breath sends me into a heightened sense of panic? There is nothing calming in plugging into the internal mechanisms of my body, or my mind. I seem to inhabit an inner life sewn from the fabric of dread.
‘Have you found a sense of a Higher Power?’ He seems embarrassed to be asking me this. It feels invasive and somehow ridiculous.
I shrug, like a teenager.
He quickly changes tack: ‘Have you been exercising?’
‘Swimming is my thing.’
‘Right, well, when you get out, make sure to incorporate a swim into your day.’
Oh yes, and how might I do that, a single mother, on benefits? I don’t say anything, just sit on my hands, which are trembling.
Watery sunlight filters through the trees, dappling his face, accentuating his cheekbones, the animal-likeness of him. The light is moving across the planes of his face. The urge to chase that light with my hand, to trace its path, to land on his stubble, the smooth skin above. I imagine him reaching out and taking my hand, his big, solid one encircling mine.