And he crawled, exhausted, alone, unhappily, into bed.

Muhammad was snoring in the corner.

8

For a long time he couldn't get to sleep. First it was Ted and his mother downstairs: 'It's a marvelous night for a moondance.' Oh God. Then it was the dog. Then it was dreams. Bad dreams about Gloria.

He was awake at one, and then half past one, and two o'clock, half past two. Eventually, he sat up in bed and tried to remember what his room had looked like before his mother's recent thoroughgoing chintz makeover. He tried to picture the whole pre-chintz thing, his thing, the posters-Nelson Mandela and U2, the Pogues and Woody Allen-and the bookshelf, the wardrobe, the desk, right down to the position of the books on the shelves. He imagined himself as a hostage or a prisoner, held against his will in a one-piece nylon sunflower-print duvet cover, in a tiny chintz cell, with a small snoring Jack Russell, having to reconstruct his life from scraps and memories, and he found to his surprise that if he shut his eyes very tight he could do it; he was Brian Keenan, with John McCarthy, and he could see every peeling scrap of wallpaper and every book: The Alexandria Quartet in their horrid puke-murky covers, and a big fat swollen jumble-sale Norman Mailer, The Naked and the Dead, and A Clockwork Orange from the Oxfam shop in Mill Hill, and Jack Kerouac, and William Burroughs, and Allen Ginsberg. And seeing them, picturing them, he immediately regretted almost every one of them, regretted having spent any time on them at all: they seemed suddenly bogus, pointless, a pose.

There were, of course, some books he could see on his shelf, in his mind's eye, that he didn't regret-his Kurt Vonneguts, for example. How could he possibly-how could anyone possibly-regret Kurt Vonnegut? He could see the covers of his beloved old Vonneguts, pixel-perfect in his imagination, books bought from charity shops, tattered and worn, their pages crisp and yellow with age, with their tacky, instantly outdated covers. Welcome to the Monkey House. Mother Night. Player Piano. He loved those books, and yet none of them had really lasted; they weren't canonical books; they were cheaply produced, rubbishy-looking books; they had no place in the pantheon of great literature; he would never read them again, and probably wouldn't even enjoy them if he did. But he couldn't deny them; he couldn't deny any of them, actually, even the books he regretted-they had made him who he was, they had interpenetrated him, they were instantiated within him. He was his books; and his books were him.

These were his 3.00 a.m. thoughts. Israel Armstrong. Twenty-nine years old. Shambolic. Sixteen stone. Just short of six feet tall. Hair, brown. Eyes, brown. Glasses. No distinguishing features. Though he did know the word 'instantiated'. Did that count as a distinguishing feature?

Probably not.

He got up out of bed and sat on the chair by the window and drew back the curtains and looked out at the deserted street, lit by pale, sickly yellow lights. He tried to let his mind go blank, but whenever he thought about anything it seemed ugly and sad and pathetic-memories of Gloria and his father. So he got back into bed.

And then when he finally drifted off to sleep at around half past three in the morning he had more strange, merging dreams, in which people and places came together in bizarre and horrible combinations: his father was with Linda Wei, and they were both naked, dancing and singing karaoke; and then Ted was there with one of Israel's old school friends, and they were drinking beer and whispering about him, keeping secrets; Gloria was there too, riding a unicycle; and his mother in a giant terracotta pot, sprouting. The dreams made him feel dizzy, even in his sleep, as though he were awake. He could hear voices; he thought he could hear his mother saying, 'Careful! The children may be listening.'

When he woke he felt light-headed.

The first thing he did was check his phone. Nothing from Gloria.

He lay still, already defeated.

The house was quiet, except for a strange scratching sound that seemed to be coming through the walls, like mice or rats, nibbling at the very foundations of the building. He thought for a moment it was Muhammad the dog, but he was still asleep; and then Israel thought he was going mad, but then he got up and went into the bathroom and the scratching sounds went away. The bathroom was safe; the bathroom was quiet; the bathroom was fine; the bathroom was familiar; he could remake himself in the bathroom, as he had done in his adolescence. Except that when his father had died his mother had had a big clear-out and done a lot of things she'd been meaning to do for years, like changing the avocado suite for something more modern, and white, and redecorating with tiny off-white tiles and downlighters so now the bathroom felt like a three-star hotel in an up-and-coming former Eastern bloc nation. He stood under the hot jet of the shower for almost fifteen minutes, trying to put himself back together again. He hadn't had a shower for eight months, not since arriving in Tumdrum. The Devines had a bath with a hand-held attachment, and sometimes he'd kneel there and try to remember what it felt like, the cleansing power of a good shower, but his imagination had always proved inadequate.

After the shower, he shaved. There was no shaving mirror anymore; he wondered what his mother had done with his father's shaving mirror, the mirror he'd first shaved in when he was a boy. Instead, there was now a circular spot-lit mirror with a frosted rim attached to the wall; with the mirror, and the flowers and the candles, also new additions, the bathroom was like an opera diva's dressing room. He followed the contours of his face, scraping at his stubble, trying to remember the name for that little trough that runs from under your nose to your mouth; he used to know it; he used to know the name. His face looked deathly white under the glare of the lights, and when he finished shaving he could see there were still little tufts adhering around the corners of his mouth, and under his chin, and he had to pull around at his face to get at them. He thought to himself, So this is how the fat shave. Finally, he put on his glasses to get a better look at himself. It was still him. He was here.

At home.

He went quietly downstairs into the kitchen and put the kettle on. Gloria still had his coffeemaker in their flat-it was a little baby Gaggia. He loved that machine, and all the rituals associated with it: the tamp and the grind, and squeezing out the perfect crema right down to the last drop. Gloria had bought it for him for his birthday, and it sat on the worktop in the corner of their kitchen, a big silvery symbol of their good fortune and their lives together; it spoke of quality and sturdiness and style. It had been way too big to take to Ireland, and anyway would have looked out of place in the chicken coop. At least his mum had a good supply of ground coffee, and a filter cone, and some papers, and the old red enamel coffeepot they'd had as long as he could remember-the one with the lid tied on with wire. He could remember as a child watching his dad, during the summertime, from out of the back bedroom window, watching him sitting in the garden, doing his paperwork on the garden table, with the red enamel coffeepot at his elbow, a picture of perfect contentment. His dad always reused coffee grounds. He would grill them in a pan every morning. And that was the smell that Israel remembered from his childhood most clearly: the bitter smell of burning coffee grounds.

He stood looking at the little patch of garden, waiting for the kettle to boil. He'd been away less than a year. Everything was exactly the same, and everything had changed. He popped a couple of Nurofen. He texted Gloria.