When we lived in London Mum would get ill a lot. Every few days. There would sometimes be whole weeks where she could only just get out of bed. She'd bring up food from the kitchen and me and her would live in the room. Just us. The people downstairs were like monsters. Lots of thumps and mumbles. I'd never properly seen them.

I would think a lot about going to get medicine, food, whatever she needed. Sneaking out and sneaking back in again all on my own. I would make lists in my head of the right things to get. I would think of what to say to the man behind the counter so he wouldn't be suspicious. But I never went. I couldn't because the people downstairs were there and if they saw me we'd get thrown out.

She'd always get better. Even without medicine. I'd wake up one day and she's be fine again, pacing around again, hungry again. So much alive that you'd never known she'd been sick. And she'd always apologise to me. "Sorry," she'd say, as though her being sick was something she'd done herself. "It's this city, you know. We need to get away from here."