Martin finished his meal. There was a moment of awkwardness.

‘Why did you come, Dad? I told you not to.’

‘Because …’ It was all Hobbes could manage.

‘That’s it, that’s your answer? Because?’

‘Is there any other reason?’

No, none at all. Every further word seemed impossible to say out loud, or even to think about, in case this feeling was broken between them.

And so the silence returned.

Hobbes saw a telephone near the counter, stood up and made a quick call. He came back. His son was looking at him.

‘You’ve called the police?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Not yet?’

‘Tomorrow I’ll do it.’

‘They’ll raid the place.’

‘Martin, there’s a dead body in the basement. What should I do? Ignore it?’

His son looked out of the window. A few weak patters of rain driven across the glass. The wall clock ticked on. Hobbes felt cold, shivery. He closed his eyes and saw again the vision of Adeline Graves in her youthful vigour, still dancing.

‘I don’t feel that good, Dad.’

Hobbes examined his son’s face. It was clean, still pure, unlined, no traces of infection. And then he looked down at the lad’s hands, with their patches of blue. He looked in turn at his own fingers.

Martin laughed a little. It was good to hear. ‘You’ll have a way to go yet, before it shows.’

‘Never again, right?’

‘I’m not sure—’

‘No, but I am. You see? Do you see? I am sure.’ His eyes matched his voice, and his hands the same, all clenched tight, firm. ‘I won’t let anything bad happen to you.’

‘I think I’m going to be sick.’

‘OK, come on, then.’

He led his son to the gents and waited outside the single cubicle as the lad threw up. The sound of the process echoed in the tiled room. Hobbes read a few lines of graffiti. He felt bilious himself, but knew he had to stay strong until his lad was safe.

‘How’s it going in there?’

Martin emerged grey-faced, his lips pale, bloodless.

‘How’s that? Better?’

There was no answer, not until he’d washed his face at the basin. And then he looked at his father and said, ‘I need to steal things, take things, the things I’ve seen tonight, and other nights. I need them to be mine. It won’t go away, Dad, it just won’t go away. I can’t help it, I just need to do it.’ His eyes were dark, tightly focused as he spoke.

There was little hope of escape, not yet, but his father took hold of him, and hugged him lightly. Nothing was said between them. Only the touch.

They made their way back to the table. The old man had left, and the young couple were tucking into their meals. The waitress smoked a cigarette. A radio on the counter was playing a song. Hobbes knew it well, a number one earlier in the year, ‘Green Door’ by Shakin’ Stevens: a tinny rattle through the radio’s speaker, a distant recall of summer.