If he was unable to protect himself against his father’s temperament, Gordon felt an obligation to protect the public. Ron was as capable of driving a car as he was of winning a triathlon. His 1980s-era Mercedes had become a Cy Twombly of gouges from his inability to manoeuvre it unscathed out of his garage. When Ron had turned eighty, his personal doctor had refused to issue the certificate he needed to renew his licence. Ron simply kept driving. In a last-ditch effort to keep him off the road, Gordon reported him to Roads and Maritime Services as an unsafe driver. But it had all come unstuck when Ron used his authority as a Justice of the Peace to trick an unsuspecting hospital doctor into signing his all-clear, and claimed to have a new licence. Usually, Gordon’s consternation at Ron’s disregard for the lives of others was alleviated by a sneaking admiration for his tenacity. But when it came to driving, no.

‘Okay, Dad, you want exercise? I’ll come with you.’

‘God strike me pink.’

As they inched down Whiting, the walker’s plaintive wheels a substitute for conversation, Gordon remembered Norma’s warnings to watch Ron at every step. ‘You can trust him,’ she said, ‘as far as you can throw him.’ Which was, distressingly, an imaginable distance. But really, wasn’t Gordon being paranoid? It was two kilometres from here to Norma’s. Even with his indomitable will, Ron couldn’t be contemplating such a trek. Surely he knew it would kill him.

‘Have you seen your specialist?’ Gordon asked.

Ron nodded.

‘What did she say?’

‘She said I need more freedom.’

This was the type of bare-faced lie, almost comically provocative, that Norma would have bitten at. Not being married to Ron, Gordon let it pass.

‘What did she say about your kidney function?’

‘You counting me down?’

‘I’m interested.’

‘Well, be interested in something else. I can’t remember what she said.’