Anton crosses the room towards him. He would like to hug him, but he doesn’t. They haven’t hugged since Mark was a small boy. Years of formal prison visits have created a gulf between them. He makes do with taking hold of Mark’s wrist again, only this time with tenderness – love, even.

‘I’m glad you’re here, son,’ he says, and Mark nods, made shy by all this tentative emotion, then steps out of the room.

Anton follows him, but instead of taking the stairs, Mark crosses the landing and goes into the front bedroom. Reluctantly, Anton follows.

Mark looks around the room, the furniture, the bed made up in white linen, the rugs on the floor. He surveys it all with a thoughtful air. Then, crossing to the dressing-table, he picks up the bottle of perfume, uncaps it, and raises the neck to his nose. After a few seconds, he puts the bottle back, casts a half-embarrassed smile at Anton.

‘They say that smell can be a trigger for memory,’ he admits. Looking down at his mother’s perfume, the smile dies on his face. ‘I don’t remember how she smelt.’

‘What do you remember?’

Mark shrugs. ‘Bits and pieces. Her singing. Fixing ice-cream sundaes for me and Sandy and bringing them out to us in the garden.’

‘She loved you dearly,’ he says. ‘Both of you.’

‘Once, I was getting a hard time from this group of kids across the park. I was down at the courts and they started directing their tennis balls in my direction, trying to hit me. Mum saw it and she marched right up to one of them – the ringleader – and grabbed him by the arm. She told him next time that happened she’d break his racquet over his head.’

He laughs suddenly, and Anton allows himself a smile.

‘She could be fierce when it came to you two,’ he tells Mark. ‘A real lioness.’

‘Yeah. Like when that dog bit me. Do you remember? Mum went apeshit.’ Mark’s gaze lifts to the window. ‘I wish I could remember more of her.’

From far down below, there’s the call of a man’s voice: ‘Come on, Matthew! I said now!’

Both men fall still, listening. A door slams, and Mark leans forward to look, Anton next to him. At the window, they stand together, watching. Man and boy appear first, and then, after a few seconds’ delay, Leah follows. Anton finds himself craning his neck, peering down the better to see her. The sun gleaming in her hair, the swish of her long skirt’s green fabric.

It’s weeks since they’ve spoken.