Aleksy moves stiffly and with obvious pain; his jeans and sweater are hanging off him, due to his weight loss in the hospital. He stands in the opulent living room of Harris’s house, holding the handle of his cheap suitcase. Beside him, his mother Nicola stands stiffly too, but hers is from awkwardness. Her case is at least twenty years old; the fake red leather is peeling at the corners. Neither of them knows what to do, so they continue to stand, taking quick glances at each other.
“There you go.” Isobel appears from the kitchen with a tray of soft drinks and sandwiches. “I’m not much of a chef, I’m afraid,” she says gaily, trying to break the tension in the room. “But I’m working on it since my housekeeper Marion moved back to England. Lots of time since I gave up excess alcohol.” She
