Anton follows him out into the hall, watches as Jim looks at the staircase, the ancient mouldings, the corbels beneath the arch. And then he stops and turns, as if picking up a strange scent, and says: ‘What’s that?’

‘What?’ Anton asks.

‘That sound. Is someone playing the piano?’

Anton feels the colour creeping up his neck. He’s been aware of it all along, the low melody from downstairs seeping up through the floorboards. He’s surprised it’s taken this long for Jim to hear it.

‘It sounds like it’s coming from your basement,’ Jim says, suspicion creeping into the look he gives Anton.

‘Friends of my son’s,’ Anton explains. ‘They’re staying in the flat downstairs at the moment.’

Jim frowns. ‘You never mentioned that.’

‘You never asked.’

‘Listen, Anton, you know as well as I do that, under the terms of your parole, you are obliged to inform me if –’

‘It’s my son’s flat,’ Anton replies firmly, though his nerves are fizzing under the surface. ‘It’s none of my business who he has living there.’

‘So these people – your tenants – are they aware of your situation?’

‘They’re not my tenants. They are nothing to do with me. It’s Mark’s flat – it’s completely separate from this house. And who he has staying there is really not my concern.’

‘All right, all right. Keep your hair on.’

He objects to the term but says nothing, embarrassed by the rise in feeling within him.

Softening his tone, Jim says: ‘I’m just looking out for you, mate. It’s your welfare I’m concerned with, as well as that of the community.’

At the door, Jim takes his leave, calling, ‘Be good now,’ as he saunters down the steps, which, for once, are mercifully free of plastic baggies. When he closes the door, Anton leans against the wall, listens for the music again – the slow air of some Scottish lament, its plaintive chords travelling up from below.

The visit from his parole officer has left him feeling flat and exhausted. The house is otherwise quiet. He needs to go out to do some shopping. But the spaces beyond the perimeter walls of his house frighten him. Even a trip to the park across the street seems beyond him. His world has narrowed to this house and all the memories within it.

He crosses to where the phone sits on the hall table. Mark’s number is jotted on the notepad and he punches in the digits.

‘Dad,’ Mark answers, surprise in his voice.

‘Hello, son. I’m not disturbing you, am I?’ In the background, he can hear the noise of traffic, people talking, a loud hiss like steam.

‘Is everything all right?’ Mark asks, concerned.

‘Fine, fine! I just wanted to see if you’d like to call over today.’

‘Well, I have work –’