“They aren’t for me. Cigarettes are currency in here. I need them to get privileges from the guards. You will find them in the drawer next to my bed. I also want some books, so that I don’t get bored. Just bring me three from the shelf. It doesn’t matter what.”

There’s a pause while I write this down.

“Are you still there, girl? Are you listening?”

“Yes.”

“You must come here at three o’clock this afternoon. I am still at Mowbray in the police cells. They will let you see me at three. Don’t forget, hey?”

“I won’t.”

“You have that key I gave you? The one for my flat.”

“Yes, I have it.”

“Good. You are the only one, see? You are the only one who has the key.”

It is all a misunderstanding and I am the only one who has the key, so I go to my father’s flat at midday and let myself in. This is the first time I have been there without him. I’ve had a key since he moved in, but have never used it before.

This is the scene of our occasional Sunday lunches. Approaching the front door makes me taste sweet sherry at the back of my throat. The flat has been empty since Saturday. The air is settled and heavy. As I push the door open, the displacement makes dust motes dance upwards, before falling back to earth exhausted.

I can smell my father in the air. It is the smell of his exhalations and eructations. It is the smell of his sweat trapped in clothes that are not washed frequently enough, and of urine left to accumulate on toilet seats. His housekeeper hasn’t been around in a while. His level of self-care is adequate, but not exemplary.

It is still better than mine.

There is a bread roll on a plate in the kitchen, with several bites taken out of it. I imagine it is what he was eating when he was arrested on Saturday. How annoyed he must have been to have his lunch interrupted.

I have never been in his bedroom. A duvet has been pulled over the bed, but it is not properly made. I pull the duvet down, exposing the intimacy of sloughed skin cells, pubic hair and random stains. I ask myself what I am doing, but no answer comes. I tug the duvet back into place and open the drawer of his bedside pedestal.

There is an open pack of cigarettes in there, just as he said. I put it in my bag and take three books from the bookshelf. They are The Crimean War: A History, The Rommel Papers and The Science of War.

What else did he ask for? Oh yes, money.