As time winds down on the Friday day shift, the conversation in the precinct turns to when and where to go for after work drinks. Kim is asked several times if he will join. You don't feel left out, after all these years you feel perfectly comfortable assuming you are invited. They're focusing on Kim because he's the newbie, and also because he's Kim Kitsuragi, and the unspoken consensus is that it would be hilarious to see him drop the taciturn act and embarrass himself with drunken antics or uncomfortable secrets.

The first time he is asked, Kim says no and explains that he is planning on returning the Coupris Kineema to Precinct 57 after his shift ends. Each time after that, he refuses with an escalating degree of firmness.

"Do you want a lift home?" Kim asks you as he puts his jacket on.

You think about it. Kim driving you home. Kim about to drop you off at home before leaving you for two entire days. Saying goodbye to Kim. Kim prying your fingers off the Kineema. Again. "No, better not," you say.

Kim frowns and repeats, "Better not?"

"Yeah, I might get too sad about saying goodbye to the Kineema and then you'll never get rid of me," you say without missing a beat.

"Right," Kim says, looking away.

You meant it as a light-hearted way to cover up your sadness about him leaving for the weekend, but that is not the way Kim has taken it. He's closed down entirely. And you realise he might think you were making fun of him for becoming attached to his motor carriage.

He's already walking away. "See you next week, detective," he says frostily.

Getting up from your chair, you grab your jacket. You consider apologising. Or saying anything really. But nothing comes to mind that would definitely not backfire spectacularly. Kim would not want you to draw attention to how he feels about returning the Kineema. "See you next week, Kim," you say in the most normal, friendly tone you can muster.

You're vaguely aware of your other colleagues trying to talk to you, but all you can think about is how you and Kim never talked about him staying with you again. And you know the reason why, it's because he already decided that he will not stay with you again. It's really not that far, you hear him saying again, like he did when he turned up at your door to find you drunk and unprepared, inviting him into your shit apartment.

The feeling of a pair of eyes staring very hard into your soul rips you from wallowing in your own misery. It is a pair of eyes you know very well. Your favourite eyes in the whole world.

Kim is standing by the main doors. He has turned to look at you. He subtly inclines his head, beckoning you over. You're powerless to do anything but obey.

"Kim?"

Now you are standing close to him, Kim looks noticeably uncomfortable. You wonder if you should apologise now. Is that why he called you over? No. No, you're sure he wouldn't want you to mention it. Especially where the others might hear. Then what?

Kim clears his throat. "May I stay with you next week?" he asks quietly.

You literally feel your eyebrows fly upwards. "Of course you can! You should have asked," you say.

"You could have offered," Kim says levelly.

You turn away from the rest of the room and move closer to Kim, lowering your voice to make the conversation more private. "Sorry, I just didn't know if you'd want to, what with all the, you know," you say, gesturing vaguely.

"I don't pick up the new motor carriage until Monday, without it I will have to take the bus," he says, and someone who didn't know him so well would miss the subtle expression of disdain when talking about the thing that will hereafter only be referred to as it by Kim. "I have checked the timetable. There is one that arrives at seven thirty seven on Sunday evening."

You nod. "I'll meet you at the bus stop."

"You'd better," Kim says, narrowing his eyes slightly to show that this is serious, not just a playful jab.

You say your goodbyes once again, and you let Kim walk ahead of you, in case you get the urge to jump in the Kineema and cling to it or him. You'd very much like to give him another hug, like you did in front of the Next World Mural, just a friendly hug to say goodbye. But even if you followed Kim to the relative seclusion of the garage, someone might see you and tease you both mercilessly about it forever. Plus, you're not sure your relationship with Kim has progressed far enough to encompass casual hugs just yet. He might not react favourably, you fear.

You walk home, cook a half-hearted meal, eat, clean up even more half-heartedly, and find yourself flopping down on your bed. You're tired to the bone. You only mean to close your eyes, but you wake up hours later when you hear sirens blaring. Usual Friday night, you think to yourself, briefly wish Kim was here to say it to, then fall back asleep.

Bread, milk, butter, ham, sherry and two packs of Astra menthols. These are the things you have in your shopping basket, but they are not for you. Although the sherry does look very nice, you have to admit.

It is to your continued embarrassment that Jean had to remind you about your mother's existence. You had forgotten to do something, you don't remember what exactly, but it was something very basic and obvious. And to say that he is not very patient with your memory issues is an understatement. "Next you'll tell me you forget to visit your mother," he said, and you had to admit that he was right.

After some hunting around in your apartment, you found your mum's address and took the bus over to hers. At first you thought you had the wrong place, because when you knocked on the door a woman's voice told you to go away, then when you didn't, fearfully asked who it was.

When she opened the door, you knew you had the right place. She looked like the woman in the photo, only older, and also like you. She also called you by your father's name. And that made you remember something, since your trip to Martinaise, you and your mother now have another thing in common.

When you return to your mother's apartment, she seems surprised to see you, as if she has forgotten you were coming back. But she calls you by the right name, at least.

"And put the butter on the middle shelf, yeah just there, that's a good lad Harrier," she says, and you close the door to the fridge and look at her, beaming at you like you've just achieved something impressive.

You don't remember anything about your mother. Only that she drinks sherry and smokes menthol Astras. And it's not fair to say those were things you remembered. But you feel the love radiating from her and that's one more thing you know about her.

Putting down the empty plastic shopping bag, you throw your arms around her, almost knocking her off her feet. "Ooh, oh, it's good to see you too, Harrier," she says, wrapping her spindly arms around you. You might not remember her, but this feels right.

"Sorry I haven't visited for a while, mum," you say into her greying hair.

You wonder if you should explain what happened to you. Would it make her feel better, or would she worry? There are certain parts you would have to omit. No, scratch that, a lot of parts. What exactly would you leave in?

Your mum pats you on the arm as you let go of her. "Now let's have some tea and a sit down," she says, reaching for the kettle.

You're not sure if you have a usual chair in her living room, so you wait for her to sit down first and then sit in the chair beside her. You sip your tea and the clock on the mantlepiece ticks. It's cold in the apartment, and everything here looks old, some of the things look very worn. It's not a surprise that your mother doesn't seem to have much money either. You feel like you should be able to help her.

The clock ticks loudly. You search for a topic of conversation, but your mum beats you to it.

"Where's Delores?"

"Delores?" you echo, and your eyes stray to the icon of Delores Dei that hangs over the mantelpiece. It's different from the picture of her in the church, but it still has the same oddly menacing quality. You look away.

"Yes, your Delores. Where is she, Harrier?"

Delores. Dora. She means Dora. You feel a sudden pain in your chest. Accompanied by the knowledge that your mother has always had a thing for using long versions of names, even when people do not commonly use them themselves.

A sense of doom settles over you. You haven't felt this way in quite some time. You're not sure why. Has everyone else you know agreed to stop mentioning her? Considering how long it's apparently been, it's probably time. Maybe things have just stopped reminding you of her. Maybe you've been taking your promise to the Insulindian phasmid seriously.

You look down at the cup in your hands. Your vision has gone blotchy. And you realise you're having a panic attack.

You don't have to feel this way, you tell yourself. No, you do. It's been a long time. Doesn't matter. Not when your lungs still long to breathe the same air that she does.

You clutch the cup tighter. Don't want to drop it.

The air seems to have left the room. You inhale. And again. Again. It's not enough. You can only suck in a tiny amount each time. Calm down, you tell yourself. But all actual methods of calming yourself escape you.

Your mum reaches over and pats your hand. "Harrier, are you all right?" she says. "What was I saying? You've made me forget." She titters to herself.

You look at your mother, and for a moment you wish a terrible thing, that your memory loss worked like hers did. Then you think of changing the subject, since you have the perfect excuse. But now your mind is fixated on the woman you lost. No details about her, just the deep certainty that if only you could win her back, everything in your life that is wrong would suddenly be right.

No, no, no. You try to drag your mind out of this familiar old rut. That's all it is, just an old way of thinking, something you don't even believe any more. You try to drag your mind away, but it pulls back.

You could pretend, you realise, that Dora was taking care of some unavoidable chore, that she would come along next time. Then you and your mum could happily reminisce about better times. But the lie is more reprehensible than the truth. You must have told your mum about your break-up before, there's no way you could have just not mentioned it for seven years.

"We're not together any more, mum," you mumble.

"Oh, you've had a falling out, have you? Well don't you worry about that, you'll make up again, I'm sure of it," your mum says, patting your hand again and squeezing it.

You shake your head. "No. We won't. We've been apart for a while now. I've... moved on," you say, but the words feel untrue.

Have you? Have you moved on? A part of you asks. If you've moved on, then what's all this?

But I have, you insist. You're trying to get on with your life. You have your own life now, you repeat to yourself. You have your job at the RCM. You have… Kim.

You feel a horrible guilt for your sudden fixation on Dora. You got so caught up in the past that the present completely eluded you. You love Kim now. Even if he… doesn't love you.

You're not even sure if your mother responded to you telling her you'd moved on. You were too wrapped up in your own thoughts to notice. She's not looking at you, just staring straight out in front of her.

I'm with someone else now, you imagine telling her. You wonder if she would be supportive, if only it was true. You don't remember your mother making any off-colour remarks about the homo-sexual underground, but that doesn't mean she never did. Those sorts of views are common even among members of your own generation.

"Be a love and pour me a sherry, won't you Harrier?"

You shake away your thoughts and return to reality. You get up and take the empty cup she is holding out to you.

The sweet smell of alcohol hits you when you open the bottle. You find a glass and pour some into it, resisting the urge to find another glass for yourself. Sherry splashes on the counter as you put the bottle down. You're moving to lick it before you can even think, then you stop yourself and wipe the spill with your finger, then put your finger in your mouth. It's delicious.

I'll take away all your bad thoughts, it says to you.

You don't let it win. You pick up the glass and take it in to your mum.

"Aren't you having one?"

You shake your head and pick up your cup of tea, now cold. "I have a new partner at work," you tell her. Even if you can't tell her that you and Kim are together, you can still tell her about him.

"Oh that's nice," she says, sipping her sherry. "How are things at the school?"

"I'm not working at the school any more, mum. I'm with the RCM now."

"Oh? New job? Well done."

You open your mouth to tell her that you've been there many years, but then you wonder how many times you've had this conversation before. "Thanks mum," you say.

When she asks you to refill her sherry, you relent and pour yourself one too. Once you've drank it, you finally feel warm enough in this place. You wonder if that's why your mother drinks. Cheaper than putting the fire on, perhaps.

Your mother starts telling you old stories about you when you were little, your family and the people who used to live on the same street as you. It seems she remembers the past in perfect detail. You listen intently, gleefully absorbing all of this new information about yourself and your childhood. You feel like a different person. Someone with a family and a past, someone who belongs. And your mum, she seems different too as she tells these stories, as if by recalling them she becomes young again too. You're not sure how many sherries you have, but you pour yourself one every time your mum asks for a refill.

You're laughing together when suddenly your mum asks, "So where is Delores, then?"

You stop laughing. The room is cold again. You look at the clock, but you don't register where its hands are pointing. "I think I'd better be going," you say.

When you get off the bus, the yellow and blue Frittte sign calls out to you, and gently leads you into the store and towards the alcohol section. You turn around in a feeble attempt to fight it, and your eyes falls on the unspecified canned meat you remember buying when you were with Kim. A warmth comes over you as you think of Kim, and you pick up a can. Somehow you end up leaving with a couple of bottles of alcoholic beverages clinking together in your bag.

Sunday afternoon arrives much faster than you anticipate, and you realise you have done nothing to prepare for Kim's arrival. There's an empty wine bottle on the floor, and the beginnings of a hangover nag at your head.

You pick up the bottle and a few other things from the floor. Then you take a shower and change your clothes, and hope this is enough to get rid of the smell of alcohol that is no doubt hanging over you.

You don't dare spend too much time cleaning and tidying in case it makes you late, but it is at least better than Kim's first sight of your apartment.

Horribly aware that your cupboards are empty again, you hurry out to the Frittte again to pick up some groceries on the way to the bus stop.

You get to the bus stop early. To pass the time, you switch the Frittte bag from one hand to the other. Maybe you should start collecting tare again, to save some money for your mum to put her fire on. You look up the road. No sign of the bus.

Checking the time on the schedule, it is as Kim said, seven thirty seven. Why isn't it here yet? You want to see Kim. You're ready. You shift your weight to one leg, then to the other. Then decide to stop that because it makes your injury hurt.

Your mind drifts. And it drifts to Dora. Your first meeting was at a bus stop. Eyes meeting a few times before daring to speak to one another. You remember the way the breeze blew through her hair, and she tried to smooth it down.

Why are you suddenly thinking about her again? Is it because your mother brought her up? Now you remember your mother, you want her in your life, but you need her to not keep asking about Dora. But you know how much it hurts when someone berates you for something you don't remember, and you know that's not a reasonable thing to ask of your mother. She can't help it. And she doesn't know how much it hurts you.

Your head hurts. There's a dull ache in it now. You try to turn your mind to Kim – where is he? – he is your future, in one way or another. If nothing else, he is your friend, your confidant, your work partner.

The bus. The bus isn't coming.

Waiting at the stop is driving you mad. Bus stops are inexorably linked with Dora. They are not a safe place for you. You can't bear to stand here another minute.

Making a decision, you stride off down the street. You just need to get away for a few minutes, just walk around the block, and you'll be okay. Then you'll be able to manage the rest of the wait without losing your mind.

The walk around the block takes longer than you expect, and you begin to hurry back to the bus stop, cursing yourself as this causes uncomfortable patches of perspiration to bloom under your clothes. You turn the corner and see a figure in an orange jacket in the distance.

"Kim!" you yell, waving with your free hand as you hurry towards him.

"I was about to set off to your place," he says when you reach him.

You gasp for breath, and scrabble for words to explain. But you don't want talk about her. You're ashamed to still be struggling with this. "Sorry," you say instead, "sorry I'm late."

Kim just nods, but you know he isn't pleased. "Let's go, detective," he says.