‘Well, it’s up to you, Amy,’ she says. ‘We’re all here for you. Nick, you should start looking into flights home for Dad. Maybe take him back to your flat; no, wait, his flat, since you like hanging out with him so much.’

‘There’s no need to be nasty,’ Nick says. ‘Just because you didn’t want to stay there when you left home.’

Bethany inhales sharply, but before she can reply, their father comes back down the stairs, banging his case on each step. He holds his sunhat in one hand.

‘I can see I’m not welcome,’ he says and walks stiffly past them and out into the blaze of sunlight. They’re all silent for a moment, listening to the crunch as the gravel on the driveway snags beneath the wheels of their father’s suitcase.

‘Thank God!’ says Matt, sinking into one of the dining-room chairs and resting his head in his hands.

Bethany gives her a hug and Amy leans into her sister. She’s missed Bee so much over this past year.

Nick looks at the three of them, horrified. ‘Guys, you can’t let him leave! How’s he going to get to Bristol from here?’

‘He shouldn’t have come.’ Matt’s voice is muffled.

‘He’s in his seventies. It’s thirty degrees out there! He can’t speak a word of Italian and we’re on a remote island!’

‘He managed to get to the Zhoushan archipelago by himself,’ Bethany says, resting her chin on Amy’s head.

Amy flushes. Tears prick her eyes. She’s regretting siding with Matt already: it feels unspeakably cruel. And Bethany seems to think she agrees with her about his dementia, when Amy has no idea if what happened last year can be blamed on memory loss, alcohol or old age – or themselves, because they haven’t cared for their father as they should have done.

‘It’s years since he went to China. He was much younger and fitter,’ she says. ‘Maybe…’

‘For God’s sake!’ Nick throws up his hands. ‘What is wrong with you? He’s our dad!’

He runs out, slamming the front door behind him, and Amy feels sick, her stomach churning with a toxic combination of guilt, remorse and revulsion, at herself and at her father.

14

NICK

The keys to the hire car are on the table by the door, and I grab them on my way out. I don’t have a plan in mind, but I don’t suppose Dad will have got far. He hasn’t. He’s almost reached the road that leads from the beach and up through the olive grove to the main highway. He’s red with exertion and damp with sweat. It’s midday and the heat is intense; it feels like a lead weight pressing down on me. I pull over next to him.

‘Go back, Nick.’