Dizzy with fury as Will is, he’s aware of two conflicting reactions building in him. He wants to inflict physical damage. And he wants to burst into tears. Is it the desire to lash out or the need to cry that’s making his eyes burn like acid right now?

‘Who do you think you’re talking to?’ Danny hisses. ‘Wind your neck in.’

‘Don’t tell me what to do,’ Will shouts. ‘You prick. Look at you, sitting there stroking your muscles. Do you think they make you interesting? All you ever talk about is what smoothie you’re making and who you think you’re gonna fuck next. Lucky you love yourself so much, cos everyone else thinks you’re a boring cunt.’

Danny looks confused. ‘Mistake, little bro. Made a mistake here.’

‘Fuck off and die.’

‘Let’s all take a moment,’ their dad is saying, on his feet with a palm held up to each of them.

Will doesn’t know what to do. The urge to strike is stronger now. The urge to cry is stronger still. Why does it feel like it’s easier to lash out? Is he programmed to unleash his anger that way? Or is this how he’s been taught to deal with it? In the end, it’s the easier option that wins out. Why, he’ll wonder, when he reflects on this, is it so much easier? Why is it easier to be violent, to smash stuff up, than it is to break down and cry?

Will grabs the edge of the table. Glancing down, he can see the glowing whiteness of his knuckles, the strained sinews in his forearms. The table is heavy, dark and sturdy. But it’s no match for Will’s fury. His dad jumps clear as the whole thing rises half a metre from the floor as it spins. Danny covers his face as Will grabs the pepper shaker and hurls it at him like a baseball pitcher. It misses, exploding in dust against the far wall.

They lock eyes briefly. They haven’t fought in ten years. Neither knows what to do next. Then Danny legs it through the pub and out into the car park.

Will tails him as far as the door. Danny, somewhere in the darkness, shouts breathlessly. ‘Mental case,’ he keeps saying. ‘Fucking mental case.’ His voice is high-pitched, constricted by shock.

‘I don’t understand,’ Will’s dad says, approaching cautiously. ‘What’s happened? You’re the quiet one. What the hell’s got into you?’

Without looking behind him, Will begins to walk away.

‘Talk to me, William,’ his dad snaps, suddenly assuming an authoritative tone he hasn’t used in years. A tone dating back to a time when he was worthy of some respect.