Anton’s hand reaches out and takes the money, puts it into his pocket. A quick surge of panic flashes through him – a new urgency.

‘Besides, I’m sure it’s in breach of your parole. You’ve got away with it for now, but … I don’t know. It’s probably not a good idea.’

Anton picks up his pint and takes a sip. The froth adheres to his lip. Years he has spent dreaming of this moment – decades – a pint of Guinness with his son. Such a simple thing to desire, but for Anton, it was an image freighted with hope. Now that the moment has arrived, it feels disappointing somehow. The murky gloom of the pub, the old man opposite struggling with his emphysema. Mark seems preoccupied, unhappy, and the beer tastes bitter.

‘You know, it might be an idea for you to think about selling the house,’ Mark suggests, interrupting his thoughts.

He’d wondered how long it would take for the conversation to come around to this.

‘It’s too big for one person. The upkeep alone … If you sold now, you’d have enough money to live on for the rest of your life.’

Encouraged by Anton’s silence, he leans forwards, warming to his subject. ‘I’ve been doing some browsing on property websites. Do you have any idea what a house like that could get?’ He lowers his voice, as if someone else might be listening. ‘One point two to one point five mil. That’s more than enough to set you up in a nice apartment with plenty of change to fund a long retirement.’

Anton puts down his pint. ‘Have you spoken to Sandy about this?’ he asks, and watches as Mark’s enthusiasm wanes, his face closing off.

‘Not really.’

‘Not interested in her old man, hmm?’ He’s shamelessly fishing, and it’s unfair of him to put his son on the spot about his sister. ‘Not that I blame her.’

She was always the tougher of the two, even though she was the younger. She stopped visiting him in prison when she was fourteen years old. Refused point blank. His letters to her came back unread. As soon as her education was finished, she took herself off to Australia with no plans to return. What little Anton knows of her life there, he has gleaned from conversations with Mark, who is reluctant at the best of times. There’s a boyfriend now, and there will in time be children – his grandchildren. But Anton knows he will never meet them. He knows he will never see Cassandra again. It comes to him in a rush – as it so often does – how that one night robbed him of everything. His wife, his children. The rumble of a hard anger starts in his gut.

‘That’s between you and Sandy, Dad. I’m not getting involved. Just tell me you’ll think about selling.’