Dad would know. That thought, the drumbeat of his adult life. He knew there was a danger of romanticising the dead, knew he wouldn’t be the first bloke to mythologise his own dad into some kind of too-good-for-this-earth hero, but for real, he hadn’t ever met a man who was as good at life as his dad was. A man who could move confidently through a room, knowing when to hug, when to kiss a cheek, when to shake a hand or rest one firmly on a shoulder. A man you wanted at your party because he could make small talk and tell jokes and knew exactly what song to put on to kick things up a notch. Knew when a joke was a humanising gift rather than glib distraction. A man who stopped fights, never started them. Who women trusted to mind their kids and sometimes mind them when they were too pissed to mind themselves. Who his own kids loved so much they would have died of grief when they lost him if only he hadn’t made them promise not to. Whose kids respected him so much they’d never break a promise, even one so bloody bloody bloody hard to keep.

The question Will never thought to ask him, but which he thought about all the time these days: how did he know to do all that, to be such a good man, when he didn’t have a dad himself to teach him? It was one of those questions Google couldn’t help you with. How come my fatherless dad was so good at being a man? How come I’m so bad at it?

‘Five minutes!’ the not-a-screw-but-could-be hollered through the door and that was helpful, because Will knew then that what was required of him was to pick his shorts off the floor and slide them onto his legs, find his t-shirt and pull it over his head. To shove his feet into his sneakers and tie them up. Wallet into one pocket, phone into the other, overstuffed backpack from floor to shoulders.

Three minutes, tops, to clear himself out.

A smoke haze sat over the pub dining room thanks to the wide-open, full-length windows. You could see ash particles moving through the sunbeams over the food station, mingling with steam as the barmaid from last night slopped baked beans into the bainmarie. ‘Beautiful one day, can’t fucking breathe the next,’ she said.

‘Geez, they work you hard here. Didn’t you only knock off five minutes ago?’

‘Feels like it, yeah.’ She cradled the empty pot like a pregnant belly, looked him up and down. ‘You’ve pulled up all right this morning.’