He felt that aching pain. It was always like that at first. The feeling that you would never get there. That the pain in your chest would be too much, you could not get enough air, jumbled up with negative thoughts. London – the messiness of it all.

And then, without knowing… breath and steps in perfect harmony – breathe two three, breathe two three. That was when he thought he could run forever, all negative thoughts washed away in the repetition – breathe two three – feet pounding the pavement – breathe two three. He ran without thinking, feet taking him down familiar paths. He ran along the canal towpath over the bridge into the park, looping around to the Manor House until all thoughts of everything else had gone, swamped by a rush of endorphins, until there was just breathing, just one pace after another the impression of houses, woods, road – and his feet took him back home.

He started to creep upstairs. The door to the kitchen was closed, but Peter could hear his mum cooking. Dad would be home at six and he would want his tea. Tuesday, so it was shepherd’s pie and baked beans.

Halfway up, he heard his mum.

‘Is that you, Peter?’

Reluctantly he turned, went back down and opened the door. The warmth and the humidity of the kitchen enveloped him.

A small television was babbling in the corner.

‘A good answer but not, I’m afraid, pointless…’

‘Shepherd’s pie tonight, love.’ His mother gave him an encouraging smile.

*

Peter showered, gasping under the cold jets. It was as if the water completed a ritual of mortification. With a towel wrapped around his tingling body, he glanced at the phone on the bed. All sound options were off but he knew it would be full of unread texts and unanswered calls. He resisted its mute demand for attention. Instead, he ran his fingers along the spines of his books that still lined the shelf by his bed. From The Famous Five and Harry Potter, to Orlando and Giovanni’s Room – the ridiculous to the sublime. He picked up Dancer from the Dance and lost himself in it until his mother, almost imperceptibly, knocked, then tentatively opened the door.

‘Why don’t you come down, love – you can have tea on a tray and watch the telly with Dad and me.’

Peter looked up from his book.

‘Alright, Mum.’

The thought of those stultifying teenage Saturdays of Ant and Dec returned, but he went down for an evening of light entertainment.

He sat where he used to sit – at least until he was old enough to go out and be numbed by alcohol. His graduation picture was on the wall by the television. University had meant escape, then fast stream entry in the Civil Service – Private Office of the Minister – too much working late – too private…

‘It’s lovely to have you home, Pete.’