‘Something happened, Sam. That’s the diff.’

‘Okay. Okay. It was you.’

‘The way I remember it? Or the way you remember it?’

‘You were a kid, you panicked, it wasn’t your fault. And then we bullshitted our way out of it, and yeah, you’re right, I was scared, we were scared, and we created a whole world of new shit. And yeah, I can’t say I wasn’t thinking about my old man, but I was just shit-scared he’d give us a flogging.’

‘And?’

‘And I saw Owen smile when he went. He was smiling at you, Gordo. He had one moment to tell you he forgave you. He wanted to tell you it wasn’t your fault.’

Sam was nodding, a thick film of sweat on his meaty brow. Gordon knew they would never have this conversation again. Perhaps any conversation. They were done. Sam had told him what he wanted—what he needed—to hear. It felt good, but dirty. Like everything now.

‘How long are you staying on Norma’s couch?’

‘Until I lose my shit,’ Gordon said. ‘She’s saying it’s lovely to have me, but I give it a week before we drive each other round the bend. I don’t think she wants a house guest interrupting her routines.’

‘You can’t go to the Hilton?’