She doesn’t have much to say beyond the platitudes most parents grow used to, especially those who’ve long drifted from the practice of daily calls with their child. He tries not to get too upset with his mum and dad for their lapses, yet if he’s honest the passage of time is beginning to scare him. That relentless creep towards an unseen future of before it happens and the who knows? after. The realisation he’s seeing some measure of his own fate. He’s noticed little changes in their manner, a lack of reasoning, the forgetfulness, an inability to move as well as they once did and their shortened tempers, all transmitted by phone or Skype these days, but even when he visits he sees so much he’d rather not. Markers of time. They’d crossed a line before Geoff had been fully aware, tipped over an unseen edge into slow decline. He’d seen it coming too late, worrying for scant seconds before replacing the weight loss, the greying hair and sporadic amnesia with more immediate problems, mainly his own. And now there was this.

‘Don’t worry about it, yeah? I’ll get it sorted. I know they said but there’s got to be a way. I’ll see about it in the morning and let you know when I do. I know. Well, at least you and Dad are OK. That’s the main thing.’

He blanks out when she talks about the banal realities of her life, only to realise and snap out of it. What’s he doing? What was he just telling himself? He nods, shuffles his mouse, picks at his jeans.

‘Bye Mum,’ he says when she trails off. ‘I’ll call soon, OK? Love you.’

He doesn’t wait for her reply and cuts off the line. Lightning brightens the room. This time, he won’t look.

They’re out there for the rest of the night. Radios playing bland pop, pounding tools that echo across the bare expanse of moist, sodden earth. The tinkle of fallen nails and grunts of heavy goods vehicles over a random whirr of drills. The searing noise of a cutting machine makes Geoff start, half rise. He’d dreamt of a circular saw, a fountain of sparks, some tough material or another shorn away, bending like paper. He sits up, drinks his bedside water and stares at drawn curtains. He can ignore the bastards but they won’t go away.

Morning brings relative quiet. Geoff eats granola to a background noise of occasional hammer blows and various mechanical devices, although he also hears birds and the roar of planes. He spoons cereal, chewing thoughtless mouthfuls, pushes the bowl away and stands. He grabs his keys, his ID and leaves the flat. The door slams behind him, shuddering in its frame.