It struck me, with perverse timing, that this was the first time since Oliver’s death that I’d been in a room with a naked adult man. Never had a situation felt less sexual.

‘Who did this to you, Dodge?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Who could possibly do this to another human being?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Whoever did it is still out there. And, God knows, quite capable of doing it to someone else. He must be stopped. We must call the police.’

‘No. I don’t want to get caught up in the system,’ Dodge repeated stubbornly.

I finally persuaded him that, though he was desperate to be back in his own place, he was in no condition to travel any further that night. The bed was made up in Ben’s room (reflecting my slightly pathetic hope that he’d suddenly turn up one day). Dodge could stay there overnight. I promised I wouldn’t contact either medical or police services until we’d had a talk in the morning.

Having cleaned him up, I was able to see more clearly the injuries to his head. They weren’t as bad as I’d feared – facial wounds do always produce a disproportionate amount of blood. There were a couple of gashes on his eyebrows which I thought might need stitches but I didn’t tell him that. He was at first unwilling to have plasters put on any of the cuts. Dodge believed in naturopathic medicine and didn’t like using anything produced by the pharmaceutical industry. I only persuaded him to have the plasters on by saying it was to protect Ben’s sheets and pillows.

Dodge had the same reaction when I offered him a sleeping pill. I’d had some Zopiclone prescribed by my GP during those terrible months after Oliver’s death. They were way beyond their expiry date but still might have helped him to sleep through the pain. But he rejected them, anyway.

He also refused the offer of an alcoholic drink. The Merlot was still open and in a kitchen cupboard there was a bottle of whisky, another precaution in case my son suddenly appeared. Ben liked his whisky. Perhaps too much. I sometimes worried about his consumption of alcohol. Oliver had had his battles with the booze and Ben was like his father in so many other ways …

I’d found Dodge an ancient pair of Ben’s pyjamas. Since he was a good eight inches taller than my son, they looked slightly ridiculous on him. But they did cover the worst of the bruises.

We were still in the bathroom. Dodge said he could manage to get to Ben’s room on his own. He said he’d just have a pee and then go to bed. I hoped peeing wasn’t going to be too agonizing for him.

As I gathered up the bloodied clothes, towels, and face cloth, he said, ‘Sorry to have made such a mess, Ellen.’

It was long after midnight. I was tired but not yet ready for bed. I put everything of Dodge’s in the machine on a hot wash and sat down in the kitchen to drink the glass of Merlot I’d abandoned when Alexandra Richards rang, in what felt like another lifetime. Back then I’d put a saucer on it to keep off the flies and it still tasted fine.