I bite at my bottom lip. I have no right to cry, but still the street lights and headlamps bleed into each other.

‘Ten years, Ollie? Fifteen perhaps? And that’s without it going off.’

I shake my head. ‘Sorry,’ I whimper. ‘Sorry.’

He reaches over and grasps my hand from where it wrenches at my hair, holding it firmly in his. He’s shaking.

‘You have to swear to me you’ll never do anything like that again. Not ever. It would break my heart, Ollie, but, if I got even a whiff of such a thing, I’d have to turn you in myself. You do understand that, don’t you?’

Through my aching throat and juddering chin, I mutter every reassurance I can think of.

Sometime I’ll explain to him that he need never worry any more. I wasn’t a threat to people because I was unwell – I was dangerous because I thought I was fine.

‘Did you tell anyone?’ I ask him.

‘Not a soul,’ he snaps back. ‘Nor will I. Not ever.’

‘Why not? I’d have understood if you had.’

He shakes his head. When he speaks, he picks out every word. ‘Because, Ollie, I might just as well have built the thing myself.’

‘That’s ridiculous.’

‘I failed you. I know that.’

‘Don’t say that. That’s crap.’

‘I did, Ollie. The signs were there. They were there for months. And I knew it. You realize that? I bloody knew it, Ollie. But I couldn’t face it. Not again. Not after what I went through with your mother. So I buried my head in the sand. And I’m sorry. You’ll never know just how bloody sorry I am, Ollie-wally.’

It’s minutes before he dares to turn back to face me. His eyes are red and puffy.

I should just shut up, but curiosity lets the question escape. ‘What did you do with it?’

There’s a snort, his downturned mouth giving way to the suggestion of a smile. ‘I dealt with it, that’s all you need to know.’ He says it in the way he might describe an audacious repair to the washing machine. ‘A good loose concrete mix, that was the key.’

He says nothing more about it. There’s no shouting, no promise of punishments. But of course it’s too big for that. Anything he could inflict on me would be laughably inadequate. I’d deserve so much worse. And I certainly don’t deserve his forgiveness.