The doorbell rings, startling him from his thoughts. Perhaps it is Mark, he thinks hopefully, come with a present or a cake. He finds himself hurrying to the door full of happy expectation, but when Anton opens it, he finds that it is not his son, but a man who is short and blocky, his torso encased in a striped short-sleeved shirt. A clipboard is slipped casually under his arm, both hands in his pockets.

‘Hello there, Anton,’ the man says loudly, a broad smile pushing the flesh of his cheeks upwards to make narrow slits of his eyes.

‘Yes?’

‘Jim Buckley.’ He takes a hand from his pocket now and offers it to Anton, who accepts it gingerly. ‘Your parole officer,’ Jim clarifies. ‘Okay if I come in?’

Anton’s hand hurts from the other man’s crushing grip. He rubs it, pushing the metacarpals back into their places, turning away from the door so that Jim Buckley can follow him into the kitchen. ‘Tea?’ he asks, over his shoulder.

‘Smashing.’

Anton fills the kettle, takes down the cups, and tries to quash the disappointment that it wasn’t Mark at the door. Perhaps he will call later, he thinks. He’s a good lad, a dutiful son. Yes, Anton thinks, yes, he’s sure Mark will be here.

‘Nice place you got here, Anton,’ Jim remarks. ‘Big enough for you?’

His large house seems to shrink with Jim’s presence in it. The new voice is too loud – it shatters the silence. The corpulent bulk of him fills the room in a way that’s intrusive. Anton tries to concentrate on making the tea, white noise buzzing in his brain.

‘Milk, no sugar,’ Jim instructs.

There’s a small fireplace in the kitchen, the mantelpiece a magnet for the detritus Anton is unsure what to do with. Old postcards, bowed with age, still sit there, twenty years after they were sent. Postcards from a different age, a different life. Jim is sniffing around them now, plucking the occasional one out with his fat fingers, squinting to read the words tooled on the back.

‘Bit of a hoarder, eh, Anton?’ he says, with a chuckle. ‘Would you not clear some of this stuff out?’ His eyes roam the cluttered surfaces with barely concealed horror. ‘You’d fill a good few bin bags in this room alone.’

Anton puts the tea on the table, doesn’t answer.

‘Ah, don’t mind me,’ Jim says. ‘I can’t stand clutter, that’s all. More of a minimalist. The bare essentials. Still. Each to their own, eh?’