Jan was giving me a hurried and unnecessary tour of the really very comfortable house. This was the hallway, this was the kitchen. In there is the living room. Toilet’s over there.
   “Oh, and, mind the seat, if you... you know. It's a bit wobbly. Toby hasn’t done anything about it yet.”
   I followed her into the kitchen, where Toby was checking his collar in a Habitat mirror. He’d put on weight. He squeezed a spot, noticed us, and pretended to be scratching. He looked at his fingers and wiped them on his trousers.
   “Toby, can you do his packed lunch today?”
   “Use your eyes Jan, what do you think this is?”
   “Alright, fine. Thanks. Sorry.” She squared up some envelopes on the table and turned to me. “Thank you so much for doing this. Wes is better now, he’s going off to school, but Isaac’s still poorly. We thought he’d be okay by now, I’m so sorry to land this on you at such short notice…”
   “Honestly, Jan, no trouble,” I said, in a voice I hoped would calm her down a little. I tapped my briefcase. “Plenty to be getting on with. How old is Isaac, now? Not seen him for so long…”
   “Eleven on Thursday, actually. And Wes just turned nine. We got him Tracy Island. He loved it.” She smiled, properly.

*

   It was Wes who broke the silence. It began as a loud, oscillating hum; then he opened his mouth, and it became a scream. He rocked on his heels throughout, and stared forwards.
   “Wes, Wes? Wesley, what is it? Westley stop!” Toby stamped his foot.
   Jan whispered in my ear. “Crying out loud. He hasn’t peeled them.”
   “What?” I found myself whispering as well.
   “One of Wes’ things. Part of the routine, you know. He has to have these five kinds of fruit in his packed lunch. Or he won’t eat. He’ll throw it, or scream, or run away, heaven knows. And they mustn’t be touching, otherwise he says they’re dirty. And they have to be peeled.”
   Wes piped up. “No skin.” They were just sounds. “No skin.”
   Toby took out the plum and the apricot, put them on the counter, and flicked the switch on the kettle. Jan retrieved a carrot peeler from a draw and banged it on the surface, her eyes right up to Toby’s.
   The kettle hissed loudly, and Toby was placing a peeled apricot in Wes’ Thunderbirds lunchbox. He suddenly looked at his pocket, and produced from it a wafer-thin phone. “Hello?” He was shouting above the steam. “Hello, who is it?”
   Jan snatched it and darted into the living room.

*

   “Who was it?” Toby was filling a cafetiere.
   “It says who on your phone when they ring you, fucking look next time.”
   Her tone was so shrill it startled me, and I glanced at her.
   “Sorry, sorry. It was Carl. He’ll be here with the car in a few minutes.” She turned, and stooped. “Hey, Wes. Wes! Guess who’s in the school car today? It’s not Amy… it’s not Jules…”
   “Is it Zack.” There was no question mark in his voice.
   “Yeah! Well done. You like Zack, don’t you.” She turned back to me, hushed tones again. “Zack’s in the form above. He’s autistic as well, but on top of that, polio, cerebral palsy, and something else godawful. They have to lay him down and whack his back every day to clear his lungs.”
   “Cystic fibrosis.” Somehow I heard genuine compassion in Toby’s voice. “His parents must be about to crack.” He snapped the lunchbox shut, stepped back from the counter and called, “Done this, Jan.”
   “Great. Okay, you see him out, I’ll sort Isaac. Oh, have you got his scarf?”
   Toby held it up, forcing a grin. “Come on, Wes”.
   He led his son to the door, went out calmly, and shut it behind them. Jan and I went to the window and watched them reach the end of the road, holding hands.

*

   Toby pushed Wes’ lunchbox into his rucksack as they sat on the street sign. “There you are. What’s today?”
   Wes looked up at him and craned his eyebrows.
   “What’s Miss Freeman gonna teach you today, Westley?”
   “Sums.”
   “Sums! I used to be good at sums. I do them all day now.”
   “Sums. Sums chums. Gums.” Wes paused. “Bums! Bums, bums, bums,” he giggled, and then hid behind his hand, head cocked.
   Toby started. “Shit! Shit, shit, shit…” He gathered his things. “You wait there Wes. Right there, don’t move. Like hide and seek, yeah? Stay just there, good lad.”
   He swung up the road in yards, his steps a little too wide, his feet pointing outward. When he had scaled the three steps he banged on the door like a Neanderthal, gasping and swaying. I opened it.
   The words dropped from his mouth between breaths like damp teabags. “Plum... I forgot... his plum...”
   Jan pushed past me to the door. “Oh for fuck's sake Toby, you know what happens.” She snapped her handbag closed and grabbed her coat. "You remember what happened last time? You want all that again? Jesus Christ Toby. Have you peeled it?”
   “No,” he exhaled, ashamed, “no.”
   Jan, half out of the door now, grimaced pointedly, turned, and dashed towards the kitchen. She flung her handbag onto the shoe rack.

*

   Toby and I stood awkwardly in the hallway. I was standing on a dusty brogue and a Yellow Pages still in its wrapping. Long seconds passed. Then we heard a drawer slam.

*

   Jan rushed back into the hallway, and Toby made to grab the fruit from her.
   “Fuck off, Toby, I’ll go. You… just… get stuff sorted for Isaac. He’s doing his teeth upstairs.”
   “But…”
   “Just… do it.” She slammed the front door behind her.
   Toby jolted the kitchen table as he sat down. He settled into position over a few seconds, like a sandbag. He drew in a loud lungful of air through his nose, leaned forward, fists clenched above his knees, and screwed up his eyes. While I waited for him to open them I tried to assume a less awkward posture, which involved leaning an arm against the fridge. I disturbed two magnets, H and W.
   "Dear God." This time the words were like lead. With a start he jack-knifed around to the fruit bowl, clumsily but firmly grabbed a plum with his fat fingers, and launched it across the room at a photo of Wes. When that hit the ground its Perspex cover shattered, and there was squashed flesh and purple skin on the counter and between the tiles. The stone rocked on the counter for a second.
   He resumed his position, chin nearly on the table. “It just goes on.” He started to convulse, slowly, from the shoulders out; and, after a few seconds, to weep. “The little bastard.”
   I glanced behind me to check that Wes hadn’t spelt out any fruits on the fridge.