‘I’m not stupid, son. All these years, I’m trying to get you to bite back. You won’t even ball up your fists against me in self-defence! We know what it is, and believe it or not, we know you’re not piss-weak, but whatever strength you’ve got, it’s the self-destructive kind, I’ll tell you that. You’ve spent your whole life trying to make it up to us. It’s been terrible to see.’

Kelly’s throat felt like a westerly wind had blown through it. Ron Grimes was speaking to Gordon honestly about what had happened to their family. If Gordon opened up in response—if he and his father could share—she could die happy.

She tilted the rear-view mirror to see Gordon’s face. He looked like one of those computer-generated images of what a new US president would look like after two terms in office. He looked thirty years older. He looked like Ron.

‘It’s been pretty terrible for him to live,’ Kelly said.

‘Shame is a worthless currency,’ Ron said. ‘No matter how much you have, it can never be enough.’

‘What else could he do?’

His face lit by the nursing home’s glowing porch, Ron was glaring through the windscreen like a death’s head. ‘He could have been more like his father. You’ve always called me shameless. You think it’s a bad thing? It’s not, it was the only way forward. I’ve set Gordon an example that he never cared to follow. He’s wasted his life— your lives—trying to make it up. Stuck in the past, boy, that’s always been your problem. Try living for tomorrow. It’s not too late. And for the love of God, contact the JPA!’

Gordon got out of the car and for once Ron was compliant, waiting patiently for him to unfold his walker. Kelly saw the nurse, Jada, receive them in the foyer. Jada, Gordon and Ron had a brief smiling conversation. Lies for lies.

Kelly took another look at that caravan park brochure. Gordon should go. Bugger the parents, bugger the obligations, bugger Bluebird. There’s no dignity in this life. Listen to your father. Be shameless. It’s not too late.

She returned the brochure to the glovebox and pulled a U-turn. Gordon got into the car and they drove back past the home. Ron’s bedroom window was lit up. So was the downstairs lobby, bright enough to show the old man, eighty years old, overnight bag on his arm, furiously punching the inside keypad. He smacked the double-glazed door. It was this—the image of utter failure in that lit-up goldfish bowl—that brought a smile to Kelly’s face. Gordon began laughing. He wound down his car window and howled at that silent man on the other side of the glass, striking it like a bird flying into an invisible pane.