Answer: because he wanted to confront his father with it. He wanted his father to know that his lies had been exposed.

A woman on reception directed him to another building across the quad. There, he asked where he might find Ted Abbott, and was told to wait.

Inside was warm with a smell like school dining halls, not especially pleasant but at the same time almost nostalgic, making him feel like a kid again.

‘Mr Abbott?’

Abbott looked up, startled, coming right back down to earth with a bump, his hand slapping his thigh before he realised that no sidearm was there.

‘Yes?’ he said. ‘Sorry. I was miles away. Years away, actually.’

‘That’s quite all right,’ she said, and to his surprise took a seat beside him. ‘I was wondering if I could have a quick word before you go in to see your father?’

‘Of course.’ He leaned away slightly, worried she might smell the booze on him.

‘As far as I know you haven’t seen your father in a while, so you may not be aware of this – there’s something I need to tell you before you go in.’

‘Go on.’

‘He was recently diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease.’

‘I see.’

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, and Abbott sat, nodding but shell-shocked as she went on to say that with any luck his father, being in his late-seventies, was likely to die with Parkinson’s rather than of it, and how the onset of the condition was gradual, and that Abbott might not even be aware of its presence because sufferers could be quite lucid one moment, confused and incoherent the next. That their long-term memory was often much better than their short-term memory.

‘You might find that you need to be very patient with him,’ you do, you cannot lose your patience with him. Don’t show irritation or anger.’

With that, she stood, indicating that he should follow, and led him along the hallway to his father’s room. She knocked, ushered him in, announced him. ‘Mr Abbott? Ted? It’s your son Alex to see you.’ She promised to organise some tea and then left them to it, closing the door gently behind her.

And there they were. Father and son. The older Abbott in his wheelchair, positioned in front of the TV, which was on, some antiques programme. The younger one hovering by the door, thinking, My dad has Parkinson’s. He’s been given a death sentence.

‘Hi, Dad,’ said Abbott, at last.

‘Hi, Alex,’ said his father.

Abbott, about to take a seat, stopped, excused himself to the en-suite bathroom and took a nip. He returned to find that his father had switched off the TV and positioned his wheelchair by the window, which although the radiator blazed away, was open a crack, letting in a welcome breath of fresh air.