He catches his eye, and Anton feels it again: the press of a question Mark is neither brave nor reckless enough to ask.

‘That’s exactly what it was,’ he replies.

They walk around to Dunphy’s and Anton sits on the banquette, fiddling with a beer mat, while Mark goes to the bar to order. Across from him, an elderly couple are deep in conversation. The man is hooked up to a tank of oxygen, a tube running into his nose. It’s quiet in here, dark and gloomy compared to the brightness of the day outside. Anton’s thoughts drift back to Number 43 – Hilary’s house. It worries him, the thought of Leah inside it. He taps the beer mat against the table, agitated by the thoughts of Hilary pouring poison into her ear.

For weeks now, he has been avoiding Hilary, and still he feels her influence, the force of her determination. When he’d come face to face with her outside his house, he had been shocked by her appearance. The red hair! Jesus, it had thrown him. She was changed, no longer the young woman in his memory. It wasn’t that she had aged, it was that she appeared different from how he’d remembered her. Looking down at Hilary the other day, he’d had the weird impression that she’d put herself through one of those transformation programmes, a willing contestant to be taken apart and rebuilt as someone entirely different.

In truth, it’s not her appearance that bothers him – it’s the weight of her expectations. The letters she has written have been frantic, unhinged. They scare him.

‘Have you given any thought to what you’ll do?’ Mark asks, once he’s back with their pints, taking the stool opposite.

‘Not really.’

‘You have to do something with your time, Dad.’

‘You sound like my parole officer,’ Anton remarks drily. He’s grown used to Jim Buckley carping on at him about finding his role, making the most of his freedom. Once or twice, during Jim’s weekly visits, Anton has thought about suggesting they go for a pint. More and more, it feels like his parole officer is the only friend he’s got.

‘What will you do for money?’ Mark asks.

‘I’ve a pension.’

‘But that won’t kick in for another few years. You’re only sixty.’

‘I know my age, son. And, besides, I have my tenants downstairs,’ Anton says, and Mark shifts his position, begins rummaging in his jacket pocket.

‘That reminds me,’ he says, producing a wad of notes that he flips on to the table. Something grubby about the act. Anton sees the couple across from them glance over. ‘Your rent,’ Mark explains, ‘only don’t start relying on it.’

‘Why not?’

‘I wouldn’t bet on them staying. Jake sounded rightly pissed off on the phone. I don’t think he’s too thrilled about you.’