It was almost macabre, like a scene from a film showing the aftereffects of a raid by secret police. Every drawer was open and emptied, the doors to the fitted cupboard hung wide, the shelves empty except for one sock which drooped forlornly over the edge, as if caught making a valiant effort to join its companion somewhere on the ground. The walls were covered with posters, overlapping, askew, the majority showing the scowling, glary-eyed features of his son’s favourite rapper, Eminem. And there, on the bed, completing this scene of violent mayhem, was Josh, lying facedown on the crumpled undersheet, his head hidden beneath a flaccid pillow that happened to be the only form of cover on his otherwise naked body.

Dan cast an eye over the prostrate figure from hidden head to outsized foot—the muscled arms, the wide shoulders, the lean back, the tight buttocks, the cluster of manhood between the dark-haired legs— and he laughed quietly to himself. How was it that such a beautiful, soft-skinned cherub of a little boy could have metamorphosed into this . . . lackadaisical monster?

He took in a breath of nostalgia, realizing immediately that it was the wrong thing to do. He discarded the Nike trainer, the key root to the problem, onto an unused chair, and took hold of Josh’s heel and gave it a solid shake.

“Josh?”

He spoke loudly, but his voice sounded deadened in the clothes-padded confines of the room. There was not one twitch of movement from his son’s body.

“Come on, Josh. It’s time to get up.”

He grabbed hold of Josh’s ankles and dragged him forcefully down the bed, away from the protection of the pillow. With his body now bent over the edge of the bed, Dan found the target too tempting to ignore and finished off the awakening process by delivering a short, sharp slap to his son’s bare buttocks.

Josh turned his head slowly, his long dark curls falling across bleary eyes. “Bugger off, Dad. That was sore.”

Dan picked up the sheet that lay at the foot of the bed and threw it over his son. “Drastic action is sometimes called for, I’m afraid.”

Josh flumped his head down on the bed again. “I heard you the first time.”

“Then you should have made a move earlier, shouldn’t you?”

“What time is it?”

“Ten past twelve.”

Josh groaned. “But my shift doesn’t start until seven o’clock tonight. I don’t have to get up yet.”

“Oh yes, you do, mate. There’s more to life than sticking cans of baked beans on a shelf and head banging in a bloody club all night.”

“Like what?”

“Like getting this room tidied up for a start.”