In the small hours before dawn, the sound of crying woke her. She found Mikey, fully dressed, curled foetus-like on the attic floor and whimpering.
‘No … no … please … no … go ’way …’
She crooned to him, but he was far beyond her reach, deep inside his own world where his only hope was to beg endlessly for mercy. The air was chilly. His ice-cold feet stuck out from a quilt insufficient for two. Her face wet with tears, she fetched her quilt and lay curled behind him, one arm tucked protectively over him, as some unidentified person had once done for her on a mountain pass, when darkness had engulfed her. The sky had softened to grey before he finally slept, lulled by the stroking of her fingers down the centre of his back.
In the morning, Irenya left Mikey asleep on the floor. Downstair
