52

Day three. The stillness hour, 5 a.m., the hour when voices carry furthest. ‘Where are the boys?’ Tidge’s asking again as he stares out of the window at the emptiness of the street.

‘I don’t know,’ Mouse replies, from the bed, the sheet a sweaty rope about him. ‘It’s too early. Forget it.’

Tidge can’t. It’s in his arms that are shawling his shoulders tight, and his pale fingers that are tightly clutching his flesh. His exuberance has been extinguished in this room, his silly, charming spark, and you all need it so much.

‘Come back to bed, matey,’ Soli pleads.

Eventually, taking his time, Tidge pads across. An arm from his sister and a leg from his brother lock over him.

But his eyes. Wide awake.

A merry heart doeth good like a medicine.