Is this what Trudie would look like now? he wondered. Shit, I hope not!

All the while Jack was staring, Fran was making three mugs of tea and excusing her messy house. The front door opened silently and then loudly slammed shut. Seconds later, a skinny, unshaven black man walked in with the Racing Post under his arm and a cigarette in his mouth. The third mug was obviously for him.

Fran launched into an introduction before the man could ask.

“Clay, this is my nephew, Jack.”

The men smiled at each other and shook hands. Clay was missing a couple of teeth in his lower jaw, but it didn’t seem to be something he was bothered by. He kissed Fran on the forehead and sat down heavily at the small, sky-blue Formica kitchen set, dropping his paper, cigarettes and lighter on the table. It was only now that Jack noticed there were two dining chairs—which was fine by him, as sitting down in this house didn’t really appeal.

“The reason I popped in was to chat about Jimmy Nunn,” Jack started. “If you don’t mind, just talk to me, say anything, regardless of how small or insignificant it might seem.”

Fran put the three teas on the table, together with the milk carton and a sugar bowl which had a teaspoon already buried deep. Then she opened the kitchen window and picked up Clay’s cigarettes and lighter. Clay grabbed the teaspoon from the sugar bowl and it lifted a solid lump of wet sugar up with it. He dissolved that into his tea before scooping up another spoonful of sugar. The motion of him stirring made the table rock just enough to create a tiny wave of tea inside each mug, that lapped over the edge with each rotation. He then put the wet teaspoon back into the sugar.

Fran took a couple of drags before she started talking.

“Your mum came to live with us when you were about eight months old. We’d just had our first and our second was on the way.”

“Two babies,” Clay echoed, rolling his eyes. “Full house.”

“Jimmy’d gone without any warning,” Fran continued. “Trudie had nowhere to live and no money. She didn’t even try to sort herself out, instead she just knocked on my door. We did our best, Jack, but . . .”

Fran dipped the end of her cigarette into a water-filled cereal bowl and then flicked the butt through the open window into the back garden.

“The babies had the spare bedroom and Trudie was on the sofa,” Clay added.

Jack was warming to him. Each time Fran made an emotive comment, he repeated it from a practical perspective, as though he was translating into “man speak.”

“Your mum was . . .” She looked from Jack to Clay. “What’s the word, Clay?”

“Needy. Not a very confident girl.”

“Trudie needed to be taken care of and when Jimmy left her, she fell apart. She started drinking too much, going out too much and leaving you here with us too much. It wasn’t fair.”