The door opens with a heavy metallic clang and Simon shuffles in, handcuffed to a short but thickset detention officer. Simon keeps his head down, pliant as a whipped puppy. He’s wearing grubby jeans that bag around his legs and a navy sweater. The DO steers him into the chair opposite me. To stop myself from staring, I pour water for us both into plastic cups. It’s only when he hears the door shut behind the DO that Simon looks up at me. It’s as though all his sorrows have been carved into his face. The lines around his mouth and eyes are so deep he looks like he needs to be sewn back together. His hair is matted and his stubble patchy and rough. His face is strangely lacking expression, like he’s someone who has lost all faith in the goodness of the world. I have the impression that if I punched him he wouldn’t even flinch.

I can’t remember how I was going to open the interview because now he’s in front of me I realize I was wrong. I’m not here as the interviewer. It was Simon who wanted to see me. I don’t know why, but maybe it’s because he knows I’m a father, because he knows about Jakey’s illness, about all the crap online and about my arrest. He knows that, for a while at least, I was close to sitting where he is now.

“Hello, Jon.” His voice is a rasp but he smiles briefly, as though we’re back in the café in Plymouth, not in a police station. “How’s your boy? What’s his name again?”

Acid rises to my throat, I force myself to swallow. I glance at the camera; I don’t want to say his name out loud in this room where the air seems to hum with other people’s sadness and regret. I clear my throat. “Jake . . .” I cough; my mouth tastes sharp. “Jacob.”

Simon keeps his empty eyes on me; a corner of his mouth twitches, like he’s trying to stop himself from smiling again.

“That’s it. Jacob. Is he better?”

I nod, feel heat rise to my cheeks.

“You look embarrassed, Jon.” As he says the words I catch his eyes flickering, fast as a snake’s tongue, back and forth in his sockets.

“I’m not, I’m just—”

“You’re not used to the questions being about you, is that it?”

There. Again. His eyes flare. Something’s wrong. His mouth twitches and I realize he’s not trying to suppress a smile, he’s trying to stop from mumbling to himself. Something’s seriously wrong with him.

I realize I’m staring, so I look down at the table, pick up my water. Simon sees my hand shaking. I hope the people behind the camera don’t. Simon waits for me to answer.

“I didn’t think the questions would be about me, no.”

Simon shrugs. “That’s fair enough. Everyone wants to ask the questions, no one wants to be the person who has to answer them—ever noticed that?”