He left the room, closing the door gently behind him.

In the kitchen, Malcolm surveyed the contents of his fridge. He was still so shocked by Tommy’s arrival that it took him a while to get his thoughts in order. He’d been going to heat up the remains of the chicken pie he’d made a couple of days ago, but there weren’t really enough leftovers for two. He had potatoes, he thought, with sudden inspiration: with a baked potato each and some vegetables, the pie would stretch. From upstairs, he heard the clatter and churn of the water pipes as the shower started up, and was grateful to know Tommy wouldn’t reappear for a while.

The meal was almost ready and the table laid by the time Tommy came in. His hair was damp from the shower, but he was wearing the same red checked shirt, jersey and jeans as before. Tommy hovered awkwardly at the door for a few moments, until Malcolm said, “Have a seat.” It occurred to him then that he ought to offer Tommy a drink, but not being much of a drinker himself, he only had a bottle of whisky and some very old sherry from before Heather died. The whisky, he supposed, would have to do, but when he made the offer, couched in apology that there was no beer or wine, Tommy swiftly declined.

Malcolm busied himself putting food on the plates, saying, “It’s not much—just leftovers. You’re not a vegetarian, are you?” he added, the idea only just coming to him.

“No.”

Malcolm watched his nephew touching the cutlery in front of him, shifting the fork slightly, running a finger down the handle of the knife, though whether out of nervousness or absent-mindedness, Malcolm couldn’t tell. Tommy seemed to become aware of himself, and stilled his hands on the table, placing one on top of the other. He looked exhausted, Malcolm thought. The shadows under his eyes were almost livid, but the rest of his face had that paleness that wasn’t quite natural, that made you think of the sick or the dead.

Malcolm brought the plates over. Tommy probably needed a decent meal and a good night’s sleep, he thought, unsure whether these were his own words or Heather’s.

They sat across from each other and ate in silence. Malcolm didn’t mind this. He’d never distrusted silence the way Heather had, never felt the need to speak for the sake of talking. But he wasn’t accustomed, anymore, to eating with someone else present. He felt conscious of the failings Heather used to point out, which must surely have grown worse in her absence: hunching over his food, elbows on the table, not laying his cutlery down between mouthfuls as Heather had always insisted was polite.