A shake of the head.

‘OK. It’s just – it’s just really good to see you, son.’

They both stood there. Hobbes knew he had to play this a certain way. One false word and the lad would take off in a hurry. And perhaps never come back.

‘You’re shaking.’

‘Yeah. I’m cold. Freezing.’

A reaction, good. At last. Hobbes said, ‘I’ll put the fire on, shall I?’

But Martin lowered his voice and said, ‘No. I can’t stay … I can’t stay long.’

‘That’s fine. As long as you like.’ Hobbes thought about sitting down, but was scared of tipping the balance. He said, ‘Is there something you want to talk about?’

Martin looked down at the table and saw the photographs set out there, including the one he’d placed inside the wedding album.

Hobbes spoke carefully. ‘You went to see your mother, I hear.’ Martin nodded. ‘You left that picture behind for her.’

‘It’s for the both of you, really.’

‘Oh. And why’s that?’

It took a while for the thoughts to come. ‘You went to Cromwell House.’

‘I did, yes. I talked to a friend of yours, Esme.’

‘Please don’t. Stay away.’

‘You think that’s possible?’

The lad gritted his teeth. Hobbes had never seen him so determined, a different kind of strength.

‘I have new people now, a new family. They will look after me.’

‘Martin …’

‘You need to listen to me, Dad, and closely. I have new friends, a new place to live.’ He picked up the photograph. ‘Look, you see here … I’m smiling. Laughing. What I’d like is whenever you doubt me, or think I’ve failed, just look at this picture.’

He was suddenly mature: he’d grown up without Hobbes knowing it.

Martin added, ‘That’s all you need to know.’

He was perfectly capable of expressing himself, but Glenda’s fears – that their son was taking drugs – was a fair assessment: the lad’s mind followed its own crooked pathways. This whole thing with the photograph made sense, but only to himself.

‘And who’s the woman? Is that Nadia?’

Martin stared at his father directly. It was their first real contact, and Hobbes drank freely of it. But instead of answering the question, Martin said, ‘I need something from you. One last thing.’

‘Anything at all. You know that.’

‘Your wristwatch.’

Again, Hobbes was taken aback. His hand went to his bare wrist. ‘My watch? It’s, erm, it’s in the bedroom.’

‘No, not that one. The one you wore when I was young. You know, silver, with a blue face.’

‘That old thing?’

‘I used to play with it.’

‘I remember. I’d curse you sometimes for over-winding it.’

‘Do you still have it?’

‘Yeah, somewhere. But why?’

‘I just need it, that’s all. I can’t tell you why.’

‘OK. Let me find it for you.’

Hobbes walked into the little room where he stored most of his household goods. It was filled with cardboard boxes and piles of clothes and books: he still hadn’t sorted things out, perhaps never would. And he was worried that his son would leave.