I ask Oscar how I could be a better guardian and he does his special concentrating face. 'Well,' the little philosopher says at last. 'You should send me to bed earlier. I shouldn't eat so many chips and you shouldn't let me watch so many 12 and 15 DVDs. And you should get a cleaner in.' Jesus. Why does everyone reckon they're the boss of me? I say, 'Perhaps you should take some responsibility for yourself big man.' He fixes me with a stern look. 'Billy, I'm six.' Billy's Mum is dead. He knows - because he reads about it in magazines - that people die every day in ways that are more random and tragic and stupid than hers, but for nineteen-year-old Billy and his little brother, Oscar, their mother's death in a bungled street robbery is the most random and tragic and stupid thing that could possibly have happened to them.