When she finally turned around, holding two glasses of whisky and ice, Charlie and Jack were hugging again, and Jack was crying.

Penny carved the chicken as Jack and Charlie sat across the table from each other. Jack was frowning as he tried to get his head around everything.

“OK, so who’s said it’ll be no more than a few months from now?”

“Dr. Chakrabarti, his name is.”

This was Penny’s domain, as Charlie had never been any good with details.

“And what treatment has he suggested?”

Jack picked up his mobile and googled Dr. Chakrabarti.

“We’ve done it all, darling. Your dad was told just before Christmas and—”

“Christmas? You were with us in London at Christmas!”

“Are you listening or shouting, darling?”

Jack fell silent. His mum faced away from him and started to tear the remains of the chicken to pieces with her hands. He knew she wasn’t being rude, she was just terrified of breaking down before she’d said everything she needed to.

“Your dad was told just before Christmas, and in the new year he went straight into his first round of chemotherapy, which didn’t agree with him at all, did it, my love?” Charlie shook his head. “So, we tried a second type, which didn’t have as many side effects, but didn’t really do much good—”

“I can’t find Chakrabarti,” Jack interrupted. “Does he work at Derriford?”

“Yes. The best in the West Country, he is. C—H—A—K . . .”

“Found him.” Jack read background on Chakrabarti at the same time as finding out everything that had happened while his bloody back was turned. “But there must be something else you can try. Isn’t there? I mean, even if there’s nothing right at this moment, new cures come along all the time.”

Now, Charlie spoke for the first time.

“The word ‘cure’ was never used, son. Not from the very beginning. It was always only ever about giving me as much time as possible. And they’ve done that. We are where we are.”

The pain in Jack’s chest built as he squeezed the words out from between his pursed lips and the tears welled again.

“A few fucking months!”

Penny let the swear word go on this occasion.

“Yep,” Charlie said. “So, me and your mum are going on holiday. If that’s all right with you.”

“For how long?” Jack asked. “Do you need money? Where are you going?”

Charlie beamed as if he didn’t have a care left in the world.

“Everywhere. We’ve cashed in the pensions and the bungalow’s on the market.”

Jack couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You’re selling? That makes no sense at all. Where are you going to live when you come back?”

Penny gently, lovingly, stroked the back of Charlie’s head.

“Why don’t you boys nip to the pub?”

Although it was way too late to be starting the full postmortem, Foxy did need to make certain that there was no evidence on the body which simply couldn’t wait until the morning. The preservation of any dead body was a delicate process at the best of times, but Sheila, as he’d now been universally christened, was extra vulnerable and brittle due to the fire.