I am Scraps, and I do the stairs. Every night, when Dad pulls the shutter down on Lo's Fish Bar and the fryer stops humming through the floor, I do the count. Nose by nose. Dad: vinegar and salt. Mum: hand cream. Haddock the cat, who hisses, which still counts. Last of all, my own tail, which takes some catching. Then I turn round three times, flop across the top step, and ask the flat, "Is everybody in?" For three nights, the answer had been no. Mum had gone off in a taxi with her big bag. But tonight, Dad said, she was coming home.