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partner. Darkus’s deepest suspicions were proved right: the partnership with his dad was for demonstration purposes only; it was merely a way to pacify Darkus, rather than the genuine article. After waking from his coma, his father had accepted his help, made the promises, printed the business cards, but in reality Darkus was as in the dark as he’d ever been.
    ‘When d’you expect him back?’ asked Darkus.
    ‘You know Alan. Could be any times.’
    ‘OK, thanks, Bogna. Please let him know I called.’
    ‘Affirmatives, Master Doc.’
     
     
    In the kitchen, Jackie and Clive were engaged in a Mexican stand-off. Jackie poured hot water over a teabag, then slid the mug across the counter towards Clive with the ferocity of a bartender in a Wild West saloon.
    ‘He loves that dog,’ she said accusingly.
    ‘Not my fault it nearly got itself killed,’ Clive replied meekly.
    ‘He doesn’t love many things, Clive. Not after losing Alan for all those years.’
    ‘Again . . . not my fault if his dad’s a nutjob with a tendency to fall into strange, coma-like trances. And now the man’s awake, he’s not exactly the most attentive father. They may talk the same and dress the same, but Alan hasn’t been round in months.’ Clive dumped the teabag in the sink and splashed the milk in.
    ‘Life hasn’t dealt Doc the easiest of hands, but I want him to be able to love. And to trust again. Do you understand me, Clive?’ He didn’t answer. ‘Do you . . . ?’ Jackie trailed off, seeing her son standing in the doorway, without Wilbur.
    ‘He won’t come home,’ said Darkus, pretending that he hadn’t just overheard the conversation. ‘He won’t listen to me.’
    ‘Give it time, sweetie,’ Jackie consoled him. ‘How about a jam sandwich? Triangles not squares?’
    Darkus couldn’t raise a smile; instead he glanced through the kitchen window to see dusk falling and the field sinking into foreboding shadow.
    Behind him, Clive started patting down his shell suit, searching for something. ‘Now, where’s my ruddy phone?’ He tried several zipped pockets but none bore fruit. He slammed his mug down on the table and pushed back his chair. ‘Right! That. Is. It. The hellhound has eaten it.’
    ‘I’m afraid there’s a temporospatial problem with your statement, Clive,’ Darkus suggested.
    ‘Come again?’ said his stepdad.
    ‘You were speaking on the phone only moments before you threw the toy across the road. Wilbur couldn’t have had time to take your phone before running across the road.’
    ‘Doc’s right,’ agreed Jackie.
    ‘And I suppose you think it just –’ Clive made a mushroom cloud gesture – ‘vanished into thin air?’
    They were interrupted by a light rap on the kitchen door. Darkus darted over and opened it to reveal Wilbur sitting there with his paw raised. The chew toy was lying discarded by his side, and balanced in his mouth was a small handset in a dayglo orange case, which Darkus instantly recognised as his stepfather’s phone.
    ‘Ha!’ accused Clive. ‘The truth is out!’ He marched forward and yanked the phone from Wilbur’s mouth. ‘Well, my furry nemesis . . .’
    ‘Er, Clive?’ Darkus interjected.
    ‘What is it now?’ he hissed.
    ‘If you examine the handset you’ll see there are no signs of chewing. A good deal of saliva, I’ll warrant. But no bite marks,’ Darkus pointed out. Clive turned the sticky phone over in his hand as he listened. ‘Instead you’ll find a small clod of loose earth embedded in the edge of the case, which is consistent with the fact that when you threw the chew toy into the field, you also dispatched your mobile phone at the same time.’ Darkus stated it plainly for him: ‘You threw them both .’
    Clive unconsciously dropped the phone on the floor, and his eyebrows arched with fury.
    ‘Wilbur didn’t take your phone,’ Darkus concluded. ‘In fact, he returned it to you.’
    ‘Prove it!’ Clive yapped.
    ‘I just