He bounces Jasmine on his knee until she’s a little quieter, then puts the loaded spoon to her lips until he judges that 5ml has been swallowed. The next twenty minutes are spent putting on a demented cabaret, manically waggling talking animals at her. He runs through his limited repertoire of funny voices, pleading in high and low pitches and various regional accents for her to shush now, there there, go to sleep. He holds picture books in front of her face, lifting flaps, pulling tabs, jabbing at pages saying ‘Duck! Cow! Choo-choo train! See the funny tiger, see it!’ He puts on deranged puppet shows. A plastic chimpanzee sings the first verse of ‘Wheels on the Bus’ over and over again, Tinky Winky performs ‘Old MacDonald’, a stuffed pig gives her ‘Into the Groove’ for no reason. Together they squeeze beneath the arches of the baby gym and work out together. He stuffs his mobile phone into her little hands, lets her press the buttons, dribble into the keypad, listen to the speaking clock until finally, mercifully, she’s quieter, just whimpering now, still wide awake but content.

There’s a CD player in the room, a chunky Fisher Price in the shape of a steam train, and he kicks through discarded books and toys and presses play. Relaxing Classics for Tots, part of Sylvie’s total baby-mind-control project. The ‘Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy’ sounds from tinny speakers. ‘Tuuuuuune!’ he shouts, turns up the volume by way of the steam train’s funnel and starts to waltz woozily around the room, Jasmine close to his chest. She stretches now, her tapered fingers balling into fists then flexing, and for the first time looks at her father with something other than a scowl. He catches a momentary glimpse of his own face smiling back up at him. She smacks her lips, eyes wide. She is laughing. ‘That’s my girl!’ he says, ‘that’s my beauty.’ His spirits lift and he has an idea.

Draping Jasmine over his shoulder, banging against door jambs on the way, he runs down to the kitchen where three large cardboard boxes temporarily hold all his CDs until the shelves are up. There are thousands of them, freebies mainly, the legacy of when he was held to be influential and the sight of them sends him back in time to his DJ days when he used to wander round Soho wearing those ridiculous headphones. He kneels and fishes through the box with one hand. The trick is not to make Jasmine sleep,the trick is to try and keep her awake, and to this end they’re going to have a party, just the two of them, better by far than any night-club Hoxton can offer. Screw Suki Meadows, he’s going to DJ for his daughter.

Energised now, he quarries deeper through the geological layers of the CDs that represent ten years of fashion, picking out the occasional disc, stacking them up in a pile on the floor, warming to his plan. Acid Jazz and break-beats, 70s funk and acid house, give way to deep and progressive house, electronica and big beat and Balearic and compilations with the word ‘chill’ in and even a small, unconvincing selection of drum and bass. Looking through old music should be a pleasure, but he’s surprised to find that even the sight of the artwork makes him feel anxious and jittery, tied up as it is with memories of sleepless, paranoid nights with strangers in his flat, idiotic conversations with friends he no longer knows. Dance music makes him anxious now. This must be it then, he thinks, this is getting old.

Then he sees the spine of a CD; Emma’s writing. It’s a compilation CD she made on her flashy new computer for his 35th birthday last August, just before his wedding. The compilation is called ‘Eleven Years’ and on the homemade inlay slip is a photograph, smudgy from Emma’s cheap home printer, but nevertheless it is still possible to make out the two of them sitting on a mountainside, the peak of Arthur’s Seat, the extinct volcano that looms over Edinburgh. It must have been that morning after graduation, what, twelve years ago? In the photo, Dexter in a white shirt leans against a boulder with a cigarette dangling from his lip. Emma sits a little distance away with her knees brought up to her chest, her chin on her knees. She wears 501s cinched tight at the waist, is a little plumper then than now, gawky and awkward with a ragged fringe of hennaed hair shading her eyes. It’s the expression that she has used in photos ever since, smiling one-sidedly with her mouth closed. Dexter peers at her face and laughs. He shows it to Jasmine.

‘Look at that! It’s your godmother, Emma! Look how thin your dad was. Look — cheekbones. Daddy once had cheekbones.’ Jasmine laughs soundlessly.

Back in Jasmine’s bedroom he sets her in the corner and takes the CD out of the case. Tucked inside is a tightly written postcard, his birthday card from last year.

1st August 1999. Here it is — a homemade present. Keep telling yourself — it’s the thought that counts it’s the thought that counts. This is a loving CD reproduction of a cassette compilation I made for you ages ago. None of your chill-out rubbish; proper songs. Hope you enjoy this. Happy Birthday, Dexter, and congratulations on all your great news — A husband! A father! You will be great at both.

It’s good to have you back. Remember, I love you very much. Your old friend

Emma x

He smiles, and puts the disc in the player that is shaped like a steam train.

It starts with Massive Attack, ‘Unfinished Sympathy’ and he picks up Jasmine and bounces at the knees with his feet planted, mumbling the words into his daughter’s ear. Old pop music, two bottles of wine and no sleep are combining to make him feel light-headed and sentimental now. He cranks up the Fisher Price train as loud as it will go.

And then it’s The Smiths, ‘There is a Light That Never Goes Out’, and though he never particularly cared for The Smiths he continues to bob around, head down, twenty again, drunk at a student disco. He is singing quite loudly, it’s embarrassing, but he doesn’t care. In the small bedroom of a terraced house, dancing with his daughter to music from a toy train, he suddenly has an intense feeling of contentment. More than contentment — elation. He spins, and steps on a pull-along wooden dog, and stumbles like a street drunk, steadying himself with one hand against the wall. Whoa there, steady boy, he says aloud, then looks down at Jasmine to see she’s okay and she’s fine, she’s laughing, his own beautiful, beautiful daughter. There is a light that never goes out.

And now it’s ‘Walk On By’, a song his mother used to play when he was a kid. He remembers Alison dancing to it in the living room, a cigarette in one hand, a drink in the other. He settles Jasmine on his shoulder, feeling her breath on his neck, and takes her other hand in his, kicking through the debris in an old-fashioned slow-dance. Through the middle of exhaustion and red wine he has a sudden desire to talk to Emma, to tell her what he’s listening to, and as if on cue his phone rings just as the song fades. He forages amongst the discarded toys and books; perhaps it’s Emma, calling back. The display says ‘Sylvie’ and he swears; he must answer. Sober, sober, sober, he tells himself. He leans against the cot, settles Jasmine in his lap and takes the call.

‘Hello, Sylvie!’

At that moment Public Enemy’s ‘Fight the Power’ suddenly kicks out from the Fisher Price, and he scrambles to jab at the stumpy buttons.

‘What was that?’

‘Just some music. Jasmine and I are having a little party, aren’t we, Jas? I mean Jasmine.’

‘She’s still awake?’

‘’fraid so.’

Sylvie sighs. ‘What have you been up to?’

I have smoked cigarettes, got drunk, doped our baby, phoned old girlfriends, trashed the house, danced around mumbling to myself. I have fallen over like a drunk in the street.