‘Why didn’t you answer your phone? I’ve been sick to death with worry,’ says Nodge, taking a step towards him.

  ‘Out of battery.’ Owen folds the tea towel and, looking around, seemingly unsure what to do with it, puts it pointlessly in his pocket. Nodge knows this is a lie since he had heard a ring tone on the first few occasions he tried to call him. Owen seems slumped, as if vertebrae have been removed from his back. Nodge can’t bear it. He reaches over to give Owen a hug, but Owen takes a step back.

  ‘Don’t ever do that again,’ says Nodge, but in a softer tone now, disarmed by Owen’s sunken diffidence. ‘Don’t disappear like that.’

  ‘Only if you promise never to hide a drugs offence from me.’

  ‘Have a shower, put on some fresh clothes and sit down here with me. I’ll fetch you a drink.’

  Owen walks unsteadily towards their bedroom. His shoes, which he normally removes at the doorway, are still wet and leave imprints of the sole on the vintage rug. Nodge stares at the traces, as if they represent a trail of some kind that needs to be interpreted. Each footprint becomes fainter as they move away from him.

  * * *

  Thirty minutes later, Owen emerges from the bedroom wearing expensive blue Brooks Brothers pyjamas and a pair of Mahabis classic slippers in slate grey. He has sprayed some cologne under his chin. His just-washed hair, fresh from being towelled, sticks up in sprigs on top of his head. Nodge is sitting on the sofa and Owen lowers himself into the space next to him. Nodge reaches over and flattens the sprigs affectionately with his palm. Then he gets up, fetches two glasses of Picpoul and hands one to Owen. Owen takes it, but stares at it without taking a swallow. Nodge sits down again, feeling the chill of the wine coming through the warm glass.

  ‘Are we okay, O?’ says Nodge.

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘I’m really sorry about the… ’

  Owen jerks his head up.

  ‘You knew they would find out. Didn’t you? You’ve never wanted to have a child. That’s why you sabotaged the whole thing.’

  ‘Owen… ’

  ‘Don’t “Owen” me. I know you, Nodge.’

  ‘It’s the opposite! I didn’t want them to find out! Of course I didn’t.’

  ‘Then why didn’t you tell me about it?’

  Nodge searches for an answer, but cannot locate one.

  ‘I’ll tell you why, Nodge,’ says Owen, his face flushed now with anger as well as drink. ‘You didn’t tell me because you knew I would make damn sure you declared it to the adoption agency.’

  ‘Oh, come off it.’

  Owen swigs a mouthful of wine and jabs a finger at Nodge’s face.

  ‘We could have talked to Comfort about it. She has always been on our side. She would have advised us. A five-minute search on the internet would probably have told us we were okay.’

  ‘I didn’t think. I’m sorry. I fucked up. What else can I say?’

  Owen takes his gaze away from Nodge and stares down at the rug. Nodge has cleaned it and amorphous wet marks have replaced the defined treads left by Owen’s shoes. Normally houseproud, Owen shows no interest in the damp spots. He puts his wine down on the table, next to a small rare cactus, then clenches his arms defensively across his chest.

  ‘The thing is, Nodge… ’

  He looks up at Nodge again. His breath still smells of alcohol, which mixes with the sage of his cologne, but his eyes look sober.

  ‘I just don’t know if we can sustain this relationship if we don’t have a child.’

  Owen takes Nodge’s hand and notices that it is shaking. His eyes are steady as they look at Nodge now, while Nodge’s are suddenly watery and afraid.

  ‘It’s not that I don’t love you, Nodge. I do. It’s just that – I don’t know. We’re running out of purpose. We buy nice things. We go to nice events. We have nice dinner parties and go to fun clubs. We even have good sex.’

  ‘But?’

  Owen strokes the back of Nodge’s hand with a single finger.

  ‘But it’s not enough anymore.’

  Nodge feels something at his core begin to shrink and tremble. He digs inside himself to find some words to parry this blow, but nothing seems sturdy enough. The words when they come pull in two directions, half attack, half defence. His shaky, uncertain delivery underlines the division.

  ‘It’s enough for me.’

  This seems merely to curdle Owen’s melancholy into pique.

  ‘It’s not enough for ME. I mean – you’ve already had kids in a sense.’

  ‘Who? Florence and Dilly?’

  ‘Your nieces, yes. And then there’s China. She’s like your own daughter. She’s mad about you.’

  ‘That’s not my fault. And she loves you too.’

  ‘I want the same as you’ve had. I want the next step. I want a child.’

  Nodge weighs his words carefully before speaking again.

  ‘And if you can’t have one?’

  Owen shakes his head very slightly, but otherwise remains absolutely still.

  ‘I don’t know. I guess I’ll be unhappy.’

  ‘Then I’ll be unhappy.’

  ‘Then we’ll both be unhappy.’

  ‘Then what shall we do?’

  Owen looks at him with a pleading look on his face as if hoping that Nodge has the answer.

  ‘I just don’t know, Nodge. I just don’t know. Perhaps we ought to spend some time apart.’

  Before Nodge has a chance to reply, JJ walks brightly into the room, still humming his song from The Mikado.

  ‘Are you alright, boys? Fancy a quick game of chess, Owen? Might take your mind off your troubles.’

  Nodge is about to wave him away, but Owen immediately rises, seemingly grateful for the interruption.

  ‘I don’t mind if I do. But go easy on me. JJ, are you wearing a cravat?’

  ‘Old school. You wouldn’t appreciate the finer things. Inspired by Oscar Wilde.’

  ‘Peter Wyngarde more like,’ says Owen.

  ‘What would you know of Saint Peter? You’re too young by far.’

  ‘I know my heritage.’

  ‘Owen… ’ says Nodge, desperate to continue their conversation.

  ‘I’ll bring the board in, then, shall I?’ says JJ.

  ‘No, let’s go to your room. It’s cosier there.’

  ‘Well, if you say so.’ He glances at Nodge with concern. ‘No problem, I suppose.’

  Without saying another word to Nodge, Owen follows JJ into the spare room, leaving Nodge, stunned and alone, slumped on the sofa, staring at the blank, silent screen of the television.

  March 2020: London

  Frankie is sitting on an armchair in the living room with China. She sits on the sofa in silence, apart from the insistent tattoo of her finger against the screen of her phone. Frankie struggles to discover a way of opening a father–daughter conversation. The hoped-for regeneration of his relationship with China is proving more difficult than he had imagined. Eventually, he decides to go with something neutral. He is always on the lookout now for causing offence.

  ‘So – have you got a boyfriend at the moment?’

  ‘What makes you think I want a boyfriend?’ snaps China without looking up from her phone. ‘How do you know I don’t want a girlfriend?’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘Would it matter if I did?’

  ‘Not at all. I’ve got no problem with lezz… with people who are same-sex attracted.’

  ‘I’m not a lesbian.’

  ‘Thank Christ for that,’ Frankie answers before he can censor himself. China takes a break from her phone and glares at him.

  ‘I think I like boys and girls actually.’

  ‘Oh, okay. Swing both ways, then.’

  China looks disgusted.

  ‘You know… so you’re… bisexual, right?’ ventures Frankie, flailing.

  ‘Actually, I’m pansexual – if anything.’

  ‘Yeh, no. Of course.’

  ‘You don’t know what I’m talking about, do you?’

  Frankie concedes defeat. He wishes he hadn’t started the conversation in the first place.

  ‘No. What are you talking about?’

  ‘It’s not for me to educate you. It’s tiring. Go and do some homework.’

  China returns to her phone. Frankie goes to his laptop on the dining table. He resentfully takes note of the coffee mug stain that China left on the day she arrived and which has proved impossible to remove. He checks Google for ‘Pansexual’. After a few minutes, China goes to refill her water bottle, drinking a glass at the sink when she gets there.

  ‘I think you’re meant to be about half made of water,’ says Frankie. ‘You seem to be pushing for total saturation.’

  China pours another glass and drinks it in one.

  Five minutes later, at the completion of his online research, Frankie doesn’t feel much the wiser. But he does not want to get into another battle of definitions. China has returned to her seat on the sofa. Before she can pick up her phone again, Frankie decides to shoot for sympathy rather than risking more conflict.

  ‘I don’t think I understand the world anymore.’

  ‘Let me clarify things for you, then,’ says China briskly. ‘You’re the enemy.’

  ‘I am?’

  He looks at his daughter. She stares at him blankly. It settles on him that she isn’t joking.

  ‘But I’m your father.’

  ‘What you are is an old, white, cis man who thinks the world is still his. It isn’t anymore.’

  ‘I don’t think the world is mine.’

  ‘Then you’ve got something right for a change.’

  ‘I never did. It never was.’

  ‘You just don’t get it, do you?’

  ‘No,’ says Frankie sadly. ‘I really don’t. Not any of it.’

  * * *

  The streets around London’s Theatreland have mysteriously emptied. The woman sits alone. She is always alone, but this is pure, distilled solitude. There is something about it she likes. The peace. The streets have become her own. And yet there is an edge of isolation that disconcerts her. She wonders if it is like this everywhere.

  Perhaps things will be better where she grew up. It had been home, once. Although home wasn’t a word she really understands anymore.

  It has been a cold winter, they were all cold winters, even when they weren’t. But the weather now is beautiful. She enjoys the clear air, the gaping spaces in the streets. No one to spit at her. No one to ignore her. No one to patronize her with their pity, insult her with their money.

  But then again. Her supplier has gone to ground and it is impossible to score. Now when she weeps it is not only for real, but there is no one there to see. Her plastic cup is empty. People from the council come round, they always come round every night, them and the charities and the police, and try to arrest her or get her into a hostel and at first she refused – they’re cesspits those hostels, and dangerous. Men have fiddled with her in such places; they gave her no money for the groping; they thought they could have it for free.

  She takes out her mobile phone. She keeps it well hidden from the punters as well as the other homeless people. The punters didn’t like to see you had things like that, or even clean, nice clothes. If they were going to give you money, they wanted to make sure that you really needed it, that you were suffering, that you weren’t someone who just wants it. She agrees with them sometimes. Too many ponces on the street, gypsies, Albanians, darkies, gangs, scumbags. Yeh, she knows about them, she could handle herself, keeps a shiv down her boot just in case. Has used it once or twice.

  There are a few friends from the streets that she thinks might be still around, but she either gets no answer or a dead tone when she rings them. Her oldest friends, the ones from before she ended up on the street, gave up on her long ago; they had to face that she was beyond repair. She was angry at the time, but now she thinks that perhaps they were right. No perhaps about it, she thinks, and laughs joylessly, an empty rustling sound with no one to hear it, a tree falling in an empty wood.

  She hasn’t always been mad. She remembers a time when she had a home, even a partner. Then there were the drugs, but she can’t blame the drugs completely, not entirely. After all, she took them. She didn’t have to, did she? That’s what he said anyway. Oh, she was a bad person alright, the worst person.

  Fuck them all.

  She looks up, for want of anything better to do. There is a sign up above her, an advertising hoarding with a giant tick. It instructs her quite plainly to ‘Just Do It’. Okay then. She takes off her trousers and pisses in the street. There is no one to see. Some new plague apparently. Well, it would clean some of the scum away, she supposed; there was scum everywhere. She supposed she was scum too, but she had stopped caring long ago.

  London, she decides, is finished. Time to go home.

  She trudges without enthusiasm in what she senses is the direction of Victoria Coach Station.

  Ugly Sue’s phone has been dead for months, but perhaps she’s still there and they can keep one another company.

  PART TWO Infection

  Day 1 of Lockdown, 23 March 2020

  ‘He’s only gone and done it.’

  Frankie stares at the untypically serious image of Boris Johnson on the TV screen.

  ‘At least we’ve got plenty of toilet paper,’ says China.

  ‘So this is it. We’re stuck here for the next three months.’

  ‘Or forever. If they don’t find a vaccine, what are we going to do? I’ll go mad if I have to stay inside all the time.’

  ‘Same for me. They’ve closed the offices.’

  China and Frankie sit adjacent to one another; Frankie on the plain grey sofa, with grey cushions, China on the matching armchair. Frankie drums his fingers on the rectangular smoked-glass coffee table. China yawns and stretches. She gets up and walks over to the dartboard that Frankie has affixed to the back of the kitchen door and starts idly throwing arrows. Every one misses and lodges in the protective corkboard behind.

  ‘I’m already bored,’ she says, dawdling to collect the darts and try again.

  ‘Look on the bright side. It will be an opportunity for us to get to know one another better.’

  China launches the darts again, this time scoring twenty-two, then raises her arms and stretches.

  ‘Is that a thing?’ says Frankie.

  China looks down. She realizes that Frankie is waving his hand in the general direction of China’s exposed armpit.

  ‘Is what a thing?’

  ‘Hairy pits.’

  China snaps her arms down and crosses them over her chest.

  ‘You’re body-shaming me.’

  ‘I’m just asking if it’s the fashion now for girls to leave their underarms unshaven.’

  ‘It’s got nothing to do with fashion. No one would ask you why you don’t shave your armpits. It’s just men laying down the rules again for how women should present themselves.’

  ‘I was just asking.’

  China hugs her arms around her body tighter and stares at the dartboard.

  ‘But what I don’t understand is… I mean, Roxy told me… that a lot of young girls now… ’

  ‘Girls! I’m a woman. We’re all women. We’re not “girls” or “ladies”.’

  ‘Women then. A lot of women… even women with hairy armpits… shave themselves… you know… down there. So, what’s the difference? Why not shave the pits, but shave the bits?’

  China takes a brisk step towards the front door.

  ‘I’m going out for a walk.’

  ‘I’ll come too.’

  ‘I’d rather you didn’t.’

  She marches straight out of the front door, leaving it open behind her, and down the stairs to the street. He listens to her trainers pound on the stairs. On the floor, next to the open door to the flat, are two large plastic bags containing an assortment of DIY materials. Frankie gets up, closes the door and rummages in the bags. Sandpaper, paint, putty, a drill, varnish, a socket set. He has already decided that if lockdown came he would use some of the time to refurbish his flat. He takes no pleasure in DIY, but feels he needs something to fill this strange aperture that is opening in his life.

  He decides to start with the banister. He takes a sheet of rough sandpaper out of one of the bags and, without further preparation or laying down a dustsheet, he begins to rub the worn, stained surface of the varnish. He checks the clock and decides to stick at it for the next sixty minutes.

  Five minutes later, he is back on the sofa watching Antiques Roadshow.

  Day 12, 4 April 2020

  8:05 a.m.

  Frankie wakes up. Tries to go back to sleep. Fails. Tosses and turns. Gets up, pulls the curtains closer, tries to stop the light coming through the window. Fails. Gives up and goes downstairs to make himself a cup of tea. Reads The Times online, sport first. Goes on Facebook. No messages. Scrolls his Twitter feed. Reads the news. Can’t think of anything to Tweet. Stares out the window. Picks up the book China has told him to read. A Girl Is a Half-Formed Thing. Finds it boring. The narrator seems very disturbed. A nut. He puts it down after fifty pages. Most books he puts down after fifty pages. If that.

  10 a.m.

  Frankie makes toast with peanut butter. Skippy, smooth not crunchy. Spills butter on his dressing gown. Tries to remove it carefully with his finger. Unsuccessful. Looks out the window again. Plumps up the cushions on the sofa. Picks up China’s mess from the previous night – socks, notepads, plates, a still half-full can of Brewdog IPA. He gets some peanut butter on the cushions while he’s trying to clean them. Wipes the cushions. It spreads the peanut butter further. Frankie gives up. Wipes down the kitchen work surfaces, sprays a heavy dose of disinfectant, pours bleach down the sink. Doesn’t like the smell, too much like semen. Makes mental note not to mention the comparison to China.

  10:30 a.m.

  So many hours in the day. They stretch like a dreary windswept path towards a barely visible, always receding horizon. Once time just ate itself up. Now it just sits there, a stubborn lump, refusing to shift. Frankie decides to go out for a walk. Soon. Maybe do some food shopping? But shopping is the high point of the day. He doesn’t want to squander it. Decides to leave it till later. Maybe go out for a cycle?