Alys was the one who did things to kittens. Moodie wasn’t best pleased but he stuffed the thing into a Tesco bag and Walt stumbled off, following the river back to the bridge and trudging on, bending himself around afternoon shoppers. The day had turned dismal, threatening rain, and the old ladies had their brollies to hand, just in case. He was aware that he was walking in the opposite direction to Alys’s doll’s house. She’d be waiting for Moodie’s masterpiece, but he needed to find some space, some lightness, away from elbows and voices and accusing stares. He found the park. He’d known it was there, from his one recce when, after a few late-night beers in his room, he’d decided to go walkabout. He hadn’t gone into the park, that time, not trusting himself. Just stood at the gate breathing in the cool dark and thinking of his mam’s garden, and the scent of damp flowers and the leftover teatime smells. There was a pizza place nearby. He could smell garlic and pepperoni and it had seemed so ordinary, so life-goes-on; he’d turned round and gone back to his single room.
