I sat for a moment. The sun glinted on the windows of the semis which lined the Ring Road. A solid row of cars was parked in front of them. When I was young hardly anyone had a car.

I tilted the driving mirror. My eyes were still bloodshot from my alcoholic night. I noticed for the first time how deep the grooves were, that ran from my nose to the corners of my mouth. Age had crept up on me. My wrinkles were like the number of cars on the roads. For years I hadn’t noticed anything; now, because I’d had a jolt, I saw how many had arrived on the scene. A child grows older with its father; they do it together. In Edward’s case it was different. If I found him, here in Leicester, he would be faced with Instant, Ready-Cooked middle-age. I started the engine. Then I stopped it, and combed my hair.

Half an hour later I was easing my coach into Talbot Close. It was where I had guessed. I parked near the corner. It was a narrow cul-de-sac. Small, terraced houses ended in a monster school that blocked off the sun. My heart was knocking against my ribs, it seemed to have a life of its own.

I walked up to number 12. It was one of the smarter ones, painted cream. There was a piece of paper pinned to its door.

I hesitated. My armpits were damp. What if somebody was watching from a window?

Something touched my leg. I jumped. It was a cat. I knelt down and stroked its arched, shivering back. It pressed against my ankles, and that made me feel welcome.

I crossed the road. I thought, if this were a dream the note would say Hi, Dad, long time no see. I stepped nearer. Of course it didn’t. It said: Fulton Furnishings: Back at 4.15. I looked at the writing. Could it be Lesley’s? It was printed carefully, in biro, on a page torn out of an exercise book. It could have been a schoolboy’s book.

I looked up. Some women’s thing, Pam had said, Some shared house. It was only two storeys high, but the sort of women who shared might like to be squashed together, close. The note meant that nobody was at home.

I couldn’t see anything through the ground-floor window; the curtains were closed. So I bent down, pushed open the letter box and peered in.

I could see a hallway. Inside, leaning against the wall, was a bike. It was one of those Choppers. It had some stickers on it, flash ones in silver. No question: a boy’s bike.

I felt stung. I moved back quickly and walked down the road. I smoothed back my hair; my palms were damp. I stood beside the school gates, collecting my wits.

He still lived there. That bike belonged to an eleven-year-old. There was a slim chance it might be another eleven-year-old, but for some reason I felt confident. I can only say that it looked like the sort of bike my son would have; it just did. I’d had a bike at his age—not a Chopper of course, they weren’t invented, but it was flash for its era. I had painted it gold and spent six weeks’ pocket money on its bell. That bike was the beginning of my love affair with anything on wheels.