‘I’ve taken some time off.’

‘I don’t want you clucking around me, like a hen.’ He sees the instant hurt in Mark’s eyes and is angered by how easy it is to wound him. This feeling is chased by regret. ‘Sorry, son. I just need to be on my own for a while.’

‘Is that a good idea?’

‘I’ve managed for years without you looking over my shoulder, haven’t I?’ Words spoken, not unkindly.

‘True.’

The question pulses between them, unsaid. Please don’t ask me, Anton thinks.

‘So, then, why now?’

‘It was a mistake,’ Anton says quickly. He can’t bring himself to meet Mark’s gaze.

‘But –’

‘A stupid mistake. I didn’t mean it, all right? Now, can we just leave it?’ Anger leaking into his tone.

‘I need to know you’re okay.’

‘Why?’ Exasperation punching through the word.

The look Mark gives him. It’s like the boy is six years old once more, looking for reassurance.

‘Because you’re my dad.’

Sudden emotion comes as a lump into his throat. He shakes his head. There is nothing he can give him now. His hands are empty. Hoarsely, Anton says: ‘Let me rest, son. Please.’

At the door, Mark hesitates, concern in his face as he looks down at Anton. ‘Call me if you need anything.’

Days drift by. Anton loses track. People come and go. He hears them from the confines of his room. Builders come to repair the damage. The house reverberates with the sound of hammers and drills, radios tuned to some tinny pop station, the syncopated beat and syrupy love-songs drifting up the stairs to him. He hears Mark talking to them, haggling over prices, instructing them to do the bare minimum. There is strain in his voice – Anton hears it, knows the lad is out of his depth, but he cannot help him. He cannot face anyone. In bed, he turns over and faces the wall.

He thinks about Leah. Somewhere in those fevered hours while he drifted in and out of consciousness, he caught snatches of her presence. The brush of her hair against his temple. The sound of her voice in his ear.

‘I know,’ she had whispered. ‘I understand.’

But this memory cannot be verified or trusted. He’d only wanted to feel close to her, but he’d thrown away his chance.

He doesn’t ask Mark about her. Doesn’t want to worry his son further. When he hears the hammering downstairs in the basement, he imagines the walls being stripped of plaster, the floors ripped up. The bones of the place exhumed.

‘Seven fifty. Eight hundred, if you’re lucky.’

A woman’s voice downstairs.

Anton pulls back the blankets, swings his legs out of bed.

Opening the door slowly, he hears the voices grow louder, identifies his son’s words, his agitation.