Moy was awake again, turning onto one side, the other, his back, as he tried to clear any thoughts from his head. Before long he gave up. Got up and walked out into his backyard; ambled over to the trampoline and fell back, bouncing a few times then settling. The air was cold, laced with sow’s milk and oestrogen, traces of Mrs Flamsteed’s braised steak. ‘Watch,’ he heard Charlie say. He watched as the boy jumped, tumbled and rolled onto the broken springs. ‘Careful,’ he said, ‘you could crack a tooth on the side.’ But he was already back on his feet. ‘I can do a somersault.’ ‘No, I’m not sure.’ ‘I can.’ ‘No.’ But there was the small body, curled up in itself, turning in mid-air, landing on its feet, dropping to its knees and putting its arm around his neck. ‘See?’ ‘Where did you learn that?’ ‘My first time.’ ‘Do you think you could do it again?’ ‘Course.’ The moon had just lifted above the horizon. Moy walked down the driveway and stood at his front gate.
