Finally, he persuaded me to meet him for coffee in the same week that Grace moved out. There was a new patisserie on Fleet Street. Doo-wop played through speakers in the wall in a gentle hum.

‘How’s Grace?’ he said, once our coffees arrived in delicate china cups, and I lifted my chin to give him a look but he didn’t look back. He looked worn through.

‘She’s fine,’ I said and then stopped. ‘Actually, she’s not,’ I said then. ‘Well, she is, but we’re not. She’s moved out.’

He stopped stirring. ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’ He ran a hand through his hair, messy and youthful. His eyes, though, were older. Shadows played beneath them. ‘Are you okay?’

‘Yes,’ I said. He studied me and was about to speak when I cut him off. ‘I went to see Dad,’ I said.

He nodded as if to himself. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘That’s why I asked you to meet me.’ He looked at me then, straight in the eye. ‘I know what you said to him.’

I felt my stomach drop.

‘I know what you said to him, Xander.’

‘What? What did I say to him?’ I said, feeling my temper rise.

‘You said he’d burn for what he did.’

‘I don’t know what that means, Rory,’ I said, dropping sugar lumps into my cup. ‘Because it means nothing. He’s got dementia. Even he doesn’t know what he means any more.’

‘He was lucid. Why would you say that to him?’ he said, staring. But there was no anger there, only sadness.

I sipped my coffee and looked at him. ‘That can’t be the reason you brought me here.’

His coffee remained undrunk.

‘He told me, Xander.’

‘He doesn’t know what he’s saying, Rory.’

‘He did. And I am sorry,’ he said, and I watched as tears began to track down his cheeks.

‘I’m not sitting here for this,’ I said. I got up to leave. He took me by the sleeve, and then stood himself, pulling me into an embrace.

‘I’m so sorry,’ he said again. His shoulders heaved and slumped as he sobbed. I returned him to his seat.

‘Sit. It’s okay,’ I said. ‘You were seven. It’s okay.’

‘But I didn’t even see it, Xander,’ he said. ‘I didn’t even notice.’

‘It’s okay.’

‘He loved me. I knew he loved me. But I thought he loved us both, Xander. Equally. But now?’

‘But now what?’ I said. ‘Nothing’s changed. He still loved us. Still loved me.’ And then after a pause, I said, ‘It was drink. The whisky. When he had that much of it, it took him over. It wasn’t him. Not really.’ I said it for us both, whether it was true or not.