We follow the road through dark alleyways that are bisected by slices of light: houses the colour of marmalade, a burst of salmon-pink flowers, an azure triangle of sky, until we come to a small square with giant chess pieces laid out on a chequerboard of marble and granite and a sluggish fountain. A dog is lapping the water and a toddler is splashing in and out of the spray, his nappy sodden. Two old men, dressed in black, are playing chess; or at least sitting next to the board and contemplating the pieces over the rim of thimble-sized espresso cups. There are three cafes round the edge; their interiors are dark. Flags snap in the stiff breeze. I wish I’d brought my camera with me. I’d deliberately stopped carrying it everywhere, so I could have a proper break from work and the angst I get sometimes when I feel my life ticking by and I still haven’t made a name for myself as a photographer.

Dad sits outside and I order him a caffè latte, focaccia for both of us and a Stella for me. He takes a bite of the bread and stirs his coffee monotonously, watching the sugar dissolve.

‘Why did you bring me?’ he says. ‘It’s clear they don’t wish me to be here.’

‘I hoped they’d have forgiven you,’ I say, taking a long swig of my beer. ‘It wasn’t your fault.’

‘Of course it wasn’t my fault,’ he says. ‘Bethany was meant to be looking after Ruby-May.’

‘She asked you to,’ I say, putting my bread down and wiping the grease from my fingers.

‘I have no recollection of her doing so,’ he says with spirit.

‘Look, Dad, they just want you to say you’re sorry. We’re all sorry. How hard can it be?’

It’ll be the anniversary of Ruby-May’s death in three days. I have a churning sensation in my stomach. If they don’t forgive Dad, if we don’t knit back together as a family by then, I don’t think we ever will. It’s bad enough watching your mum walk out on you, followed by both your sisters, whilst your father drinks himself stupid, but we were still a family. I don’t want to lose that. It’s pretty fucking lonely, as it is. My girlfriend left me on New Year’s Eve too. Thanks, Maddison. Although, to be fair, I hadn’t paid her any attention for months. Not since 15 August, to be precise.

‘It’s monstrous that Ruby-May is no longer with us. Obviously I am sorry. But it was not my fault,’ Dad says. ‘Why should I be held responsible for that poor child’s death?’