Tom Flower crouched by the bathtub. The extractor fan was broken. The only sound was the scrape of plastic toys on the enamel tub as he gathered them – a fireman, a riderless horse, a grinning pig. He dropped them into the toy bucket. His daughter’s clothes – her socks, knickers, yellow leggings, mermaid top, were still strewn on the bathmat. His black cat mounted the lidded toilet. Someone knocked on the front door twice.

There had been a period when the toy bucket was attached to the tiles above the bath, held there by suction pads. But twice, at night, the pads had failed, sending the bucket clattering into the tub. On the second occasion, it had woken his daughter. He had gone into her room.

‘What’s happening?’ she’d said.

‘Nothing’s happened,’ he’d said, and he’d sat with her. He’d reset the lullaby function on her night light.

On the doorstep, in the glare of the security lamp, was a thin, bearded man holding a black, breathless terrier. There was a smooth, mask-like quality to the skin of his face. He sniffed. A silver ring in his nostril. ‘I’ve had Botox, Tom,’ the man said. The dog in his arms appeared frightened. ‘And a hair transplant,’ the man continued, shifting the animal’s weight.

‘Michael,’ said Flower.

It was a decade since the damp-blighted flat above the Failsworth sweet shop. A year, perhaps, since the chicken burgers and dense fog in the layby on the A590.

As he stepped into the hallway Michael Donovan glanced at a framed black and white photograph of a couple kissing in 1950s Paris. With their eyes closed they clasped each other’s cheeks so their faces were largely obscured. Donovan’s woollen overcoat was lined with black silk. He hung it on the newel post. ‘My teeth are new, too.’ He turned to face Flower, but kept his mouth closed.

‘I bought a cat,’ Flower said. ‘Is it OK with them?’

‘He’s a complete softie.’

‘I’m just going to –’

‘I can’t stay long.’

‘Just give me a moment.’

‘I’m up to see my brother,’ Donovan called out as Flower ascended the staircase in four long, careful strides.

His daughter lay on her front, hiding her face with her hands, her duvet and teddies crumpled at her feet. ‘It’s OK,’ he said. She peeped at him. Her hair was still damp. He pulled the duvet over her.

‘Uncle Michael’s turned up.’

‘Who’s Uncle Michael?’

Flower tucked the duvet into her sides.

‘Do you remember the man we played football with?’

‘In the park?’

‘In the backyard.’

She shook her head.

‘Tall. With a beard.’ Flower mimed the dimensions of Donovan’s facial hair, showing her how it began bushy before tapering to a point. ‘Oh,’ his daughter said, and Flower kissed her. He whispered into her ear – no words, just, pss pss pss pss. She gave a hissy laugh, attempting to guard her ear with her shoulder. She wrapped her arms around his neck and again he whispered, pss pss pss pss. He unhooked her arms from his neck.

On the landing, he peered into his bedroom. His cat sat on the unmade bed. She blinked her green eyes slowly as he closed the door.

Downstairs, he found Donovan on the grey settee, his legs crossed at the thigh.

‘All right?’ said Donovan. His trouser leg had ridden up, exposing a section of practically hairless calf. ‘They’ve basically –’ He bowed his head. ‘The scars have basically healed.’ He stroked his crown. ‘And I’ve deleted the dating apps. I’ve started go-karting. Have you got any gin?’

‘I could ask my neighbour.’

‘It’s funny –’

‘She’s lovely –’

‘Hello –’

‘I can –’

‘Hello!’ Donovan clasped the black dog. ‘You’re a good boy, aren’t you?’ He gripped the dog and put it into a headlock. ‘You’re a good boy, aren’t you? You’re a good boy. Aren’t you? Eh? Eh?’ He placed the dog onto the floor and addressed it in an urgent, fearful voice. ‘Ronnie, where is it? Where is it, Ronnie?’ The dog became alert, crouched, preparing to pounce or give chase. ‘Ronnie, where is it? Where is it?’ Donovan grabbed the animal and embraced it. He hummed tenderly as it tried quite desperately to lick his face.

‘There’s a track in Lewisham. Petrol-powered karts. I hire one of their helmets, but I’ve bought my own inlay –’

‘What’s that?’

‘A sort of thin balaclava, for under your helmet.’

‘It’s good to see you.’

‘I scream as I race.’ Donovan gritted his new teeth. ‘I scream non-stop. If I screamed here how I scream on the kart your neighbour would call the police. She wouldn’t hesitate.’ He looked away, stroking the dog’s head. ‘We’re karting up near Preston tomorrow, my brother and me. I’d invite you . . .’ He looked around the room, at the framed posters for art exhibitions, at the small white television, at a thick fantasy novel on the small coffee table.

‘How are you, Tom?’

‘I’m well.’

‘I mean everything’s bad, really. Right?’

‘I’ll get us some water. I keep forgetting to drink.’

Flower passed along the hallway to the kitchen.

Donovan called out, ‘Hey, what about the football?’

‘I know.’

Flower’s phone lay face down beside the gas hob. He picked up a yellow safari jeep from the floor and put it on the countertop. He picked up a pink monkey and a tiger costume.

‘I don’t get excited anymore,’ Donovan called out.

‘Hang on.’

His daughter’s mother had messaged: I’m not angry . . .  just sad xx

Flower replied: Michael Donovan’s just turned up drunk with a dog xx

He took two glasses from the cupboard, filled one with cold water and drank several deep draughts with his eyes closed. He set the glass on the drainer and filled the other.

In the living room Donovan was on his phone. Flower set down the glass of water beside the fantasy novel.

‘I got pretty desperate last year,’ Flower said.

‘What makes you say that?’

‘I was pretty desperate –’

‘I completely mastered the dating apps, Tom.’ Donovan uncrossed his legs and leaned forwards. ‘I’d match with someone and send her a bat emoji. Here is my bat, I’d say. Then I’d make a precise observation about one of her photos, like, Your dungarees are beautifully ironed. Then for a while I’d continue to be playful until suddenly I’d say: I’ve just come out of a long-term relationship. I’m not looking for anything serious. I totally understand if you’re on a different page. That was the secret – is the secret, to totally understand.’

Several raisins were strewn across the dusty hearth. In the gas fire briquettes of imitation coal were draped in cobwebs. Flower stood on a small blue rug he’d purchased some months ago. The checkout assistant had said, ‘You like blue things, I’ve noticed.’ And Flower had walked out into the carpark. It was morning still and only a few cars were there. He pressed his key fob. The sound his car made was the clunk of its doors unlocking in unison. He put the folded rug on the passenger seat. He held the steering wheel. Through the windscreen were thirty or forty empty parking bays, a row of sycamore saplings and an elevated section of a motorway that encircled the city. He switched on the radio. A DJ described a night out in London during which a famous actor had recognised him. He told the story in a shocked voice, attempting to convey the discombobulation he’d experienced. ‘He recognised me,’ the DJ said, in summary. ‘Mind blown.’ Flower twisted the key and the engine started. ‘I repeat: he recognised me.’

‘I’ve got a new technique,’ Donovan said.

‘Do you mind if we go into the kitchen?’

‘I’ve got a new technique.’

‘I need to eat.’

Donovan lifted the black dog onto the floor. It padded across the mat, sniffed a raisin, then gazed up into the chimney breast.

On the kitchen table was a miniature pot of apricot yoghurt, its licked lid, and a gnawed raw carrot in a shallow plastic bowl.

Flower opened the fridge and took out a white onion and a courgette. He sliced the onion in half and peeled away the skin.

‘I go out in London dressed as Jesus.’ Donovan stared at the artwork on the fridge door – a tissue paper dog, a jellyfish made out of glitter and a paper plate. ‘We’re older than Jesus ever was. Sometimes I go out in a high-vis boiler suit. I go up to strangers and start talking. If they ignore me, I just move on. But generally, people are like, “Oh my god, I wish people talked to each other like this more!” I invite old friends down from the north and I wingman them. Guys that have literally never approached a girl. I dress as Christ, or in my boiler suit, and sometimes they tell us to go away, but one guy, this guy I’ve known forever, who’s never had any luck, got three numbers. And yes, of course, they all ghosted him. But that’s not the point.’

Flower broke cloves from a garlic bulb. With a small knife he skinned them, then crushed them with the heel of his hand. Donovan came to stand at his shoulder.

‘I address these big, open questions to women. Then I just listen.’

Flower set a frying pan on the hob, lit a flame beneath it and poured in oil. He picked up the chopping board and swept the diced onion and garlic in. He set down the board and began to slice the courgette.

‘You wouldn’t have to dress up, Tom. I’d be Christ. Or I’ll wear the boiler suit. You could wear what you want.’

The onion and garlic were sizzling gently. Flower swept the sliced courgette into the pan and turned down the gas. He took a neon pink fish slice and stirred the contents of the pan. He ground pepper over the softening vegetables.

‘It’s good to see you, Michael.’

Flower turned and leant against the counter. He frowned and it felt like a dragonfly had landed between his eyebrows. ‘I do think of you,’ he said. He took the kettle from its cradle and filled it. He took a half-full carton of passata from the fridge and emptied it over the frying food. He looked into the black window, first at his reflection, then at Donovan’s. He washed out the carton. The sauce and the water drained from the sink and he felt, for a moment, lungless.

He left the kitchen. Donovan followed. At the foot of the stairs, Donovan said, ‘Would you know I’d had Botox?’

‘I can tell because you’ve told me.’

‘I want people to know.’

The black dog padded out of the living room. Donovan picked it up and followed Flower up the stairs. Outside his daughter’s bedroom, Flower said, ‘I just want to check on her. There’s no need to be quiet. In fact, I’m convinced whispering wakes her.’

Her bedroom was small. A wardrobe, the little bed, a pink plastic piano. On her bedside cabinet a blue star emitted a low light.

‘Oh my God,’ Donovan said, looking at the child.

She lay on her back. She’d kicked the duvet down the bed and it was bunched up. Her bare feet rested on it, slightly elevated. Her pyjama trousers didn’t match the fleece top. Her hair was dry. Her eyelids were pale pink. Her mouth was open.

‘She’s so big!’

‘You don’t have to whisper.’

Flower lifted the child’s legs and guided her feet under the duvet. She stirred. Flower tucked a plastic baby beside her pillow. Beside the blue star were two picture books. One depicted a family’s attempt to excavate a tree stump in their garden. The other was set in ancient Egypt and concerned a spate of robberies. Jewels were being stolen from the eye sockets of gold statues at night. To catch the thief, a young woman painted her face gold and stood motionless among the statues, waiting.

‘You should warn me,’ Flower said. ‘Next time you’re up.’

Donovan crouched and let the black dog step from his arms onto the bedroom floor. It sniffed at the pink leg of the plastic piano, then peered into the light of the landing. The child swallowed, reaching out with slow, slack hands, then she rested them on the duvet and her breath settled.

‘I bought Football Manager on my laptop last week,’ said Donovan. ‘I couldn’t resist it. I played for nearly four days without sleeping, managing Blackpool. I signed a guy called Malandrino – a sixteen-year-old from Verona. In the Champions League final he scored a diving header against Dortmund. He played into his forties. I was so tired. Each time we won something I ran around the flat, shouting his name and –’ Donovan clasped the black dog and raised it above his head like a trophy. He shook it gently, evoking the sound of a crowd of men, all screaming ‘yeah’ in unison.

In her bed the child licked her lips, raised her eyebrows.

‘Malandrino,’ Donovan whispered, and the child sat up and opened her eyes. She looked at her father, then at Donovan, then at the black dog in his arms.

‘What’s happening?’ she said.

And though he knew she wasn’t truly awake, Flower said, ‘Nothing’s happened’, and he watched as she closed her eyes calmly and lay her head on the pillow.

He hurried down the stairs. He took the pink fish slice, turned off the gas and chiselled at the burnt food. ‘It’s OK,’ Flower said. He went to open the window. ‘I like burn. I don’t mind burnt food.’

Donovan stood in the kitchen doorway on his phone.

‘We’ll go,’ he said. ‘We’ll leave you.’

Donovan filled a bowl at the sink and put it on the floor. He called for the dog. There was the sound of claws on wood and then the animal arrived. It saw the bowl and began drinking frantically from it, lapping until the bowl was empty and it tipped and rolled, settling noisily, upside down on the tiled floor.

‘Earlier, on the train, I looked him up,’ said Donovan. ‘Malandrino. He’s at Verona. Sixteen. His whole career ahead of him.’

Flower followed Donovan down the narrow hallway. He slipped past as his friend put on his coat and opened the front door. Out of the darkness came a black car, its headlights illuminating the rain-slick road and the low branches of a tree.

‘Goodbye, Michael.’

Flower stroked the dog and smiled at it. He tickled its chin and said it was a pleasure to have met it. Then his voice deepened and he said, quietly, to his friend, ‘See you’.

Donovan descended the front steps and carried his companion to the car. Flower watched the vehicle drive away, till it was just a pair of red lights, then he watched the lights disappear around the bend.

He scraped the burnt food into the forest green kitchen caddy. He climbed the stairs. He allowed the cat to leave his bedroom. In the bathroom he opened the hot tap and water poured into the bathtub. He depressed the plug and ran a wet hand through his thinning hair. The cat blinked at him from the toilet lid. He removed his slippers, his tracksuit bottoms, his underpants and shirt. The water kept pouring and steam rose. He picked up the toy bucket and pressed its suction pads against the tiles, as hard as he could, then let go.

Image © Danny Howe