1985, London, England.
For a child, alcohol and tobacco should not have filled his memories. The air should have smelled of fallen leaves and damp earth.
But little Will Behrens was different. Stronger smells defined his world: the cloying sweetness of sherry, the sharp bite of whiskey, and the stale, choking odor of tobacco that always clung to them.
For as long as he could remember, those smells had lingered like background noise throughout the house where he lived, a place too spacious and yet unnaturally cold.
For a short while, he had been attached to a nanny who smelled of cheap soap. It was almost the only fresh note in his memories. But the kind woman had vanished at some point, evaporating as quietly as his mother Dorothy's zest for life, leaving only bottles and ashtrays behind.
"Behrens, bring me the bottle!"
The woman who shouted had tangled long hair and sallow skin. Traces of her former beauty were still visible in her haggard face. She was little Will's mother, Dorothy. Once very beautiful, she had become a heavy drinker and smoker.
Alcohol and tobacco had become her comforts. She started with a glass of sherry at lunch, then drank whiskey with dinner. Smoke always curled through the house, as muddled as her fading reason.
At his mother's call, Will hurried to get the bottle. If he was too slow, he might have to spend another day and night in the smallest, darkest room.
He ran to the drinks cabinet and stood on tiptoe. The lower shelves were empty. Only a few dark bottles with ornate labels remained, bottles he did not recognize. His mother apparently had no plans to touch them yet.
He dragged over a stool and climbed onto it, his small body wobbling. Reaching out, he