He had not thought about Edinburgh in years. Not deliberately avoided it, filed it in the category of things that had served their purpose and did not require revisiting. But standing in the garden that morning with his hand against his mother’s last rose, something had shifted in the filing system, and on the drive back to Margate that evening the memories came up the way things do when you have stopped actively holding them down.He let them come. He had learned, at some point in his mid-twenties, that resistance was more exhausting than passage.He was ten when the social worker placed him with the Hendersons in Swindon. Not unkind people. A couple in their fifties with a tidy house and a dog named Biscuit and the particular careful brightness of people who had decided to help and were working very hard at it. They called him Ethan, which was correct, and asked him questions about school and what he liked to eat and whether he preferred a bath or a shower in the mornings, and he an