The image frightened me and the tightness got tighter. I took one hand off the wheel and sniffed at my scentless wrist. Then I gripped the wheel again and accelerated past a line of trucks, wanting to get home to Jack.

I was glad to be in before half past four, which was when he usually arrived home from school. When he and Lola were younger I had arranged my time at the Works so I could be at home as early as possible, and even now I didn’t like to think of my child coming home too often to an empty house. Although Jack gave no sign that he welcomed my concern or my presence. The opposite, in fact.

He came in within fifteen minutes and sat down in front of the television. I made us a pot of tea and a plate of toast, and he devoured three slices of it with his eyes fixed on the screen. I tried to assess whether or not he had actually been at school all day, without asking questions that would make this too obvious. I knew, at least, that he had been there since the three days of bunking off, because Mr Rainbird had telephoned to let me know.

‘Hello, it’s Paul Rainbird here,’ he said. He had a nice voice, on and off the phone.

‘Is something wrong?’

He laughed. ‘No, I just wanted to let you know that Jack’s form teacher says his attendance is fine. And I wanted to ask if he seems any happier.’

‘He doesn’t seem any unhappier.’

He laughed again, and he had a nice laugh too. ‘We’ll take that as a plus, shall we?’

‘Yes, I think so.’

‘Let me know if there’s anything else you need,’ he said, with a hint of ambiguity, before he rang off.

‘What did you do today, Jack?’

A shrug.

‘Did you have Biology?’ Biology was the only subject for which he had any enthusiasm.

He gave me a dry look. ‘It’s Thursday.’

‘Ah. Would you like some more toast?’

‘No, but I’ll have more tea, if there is any.’

Encouraged by the normality of this exchange I refilled our mugs and went to sit by him. The slope of his shoulders and his bony wrists made my longing to gather him up in my arms so strong that I had to clench my fists to stop myself. Recognising this by telepathy he sank deeper into his chair and drew up his knees as a rampart. It was one of the paradoxes of parenthood, I thought, that the demonstrative love I had yearned for as a child was utterly rejected by my own son.

‘So what did you do?’ Our conversations had deteriorated into a sort of contest to see how long I was prepared to go on asking questions and how effectively he could stonewall.