‘I know what you spend it on. You spend it on bloody drugs.’ He pushed his face close to Roland’s. ‘What drugs, I don’t know. Heroin, is it? You tell me. Either way, you can do what you want, lad. But don’t bring that shit into my house. You got a house key?’

Roland nodded down to the left. ‘In my front pocket.’

Dad tried to reach into the pocket, but, bunched up against the counter, the jeans were too tight, so he grabbed the lip of the pocket and pulled it off. The jeans were button-fly, and the force was such that the buttons scattered on the kitchen floor.

Key in hand, he shoved Roland towards the door. ‘Now get out.’

I ran back to the car. From the window I watched as Roland left the house, clutching his jeans to his waist to stop them falling down. I didn’t see him again for nearly a year.

That was the first I knew that Roland was taking heroin. I never discussed it with my parents, but looking back it seems clear to me that they’d known – or suspected – something for much longer. There was the disappearing money (and who knew what else), but more than that there was the grapevine. In Warrington, people knew what other people were up to, in particular if it involved scandal. And hard drugs were scandal.

That was nothing on what was to come, though.

About a year later I was walking home from the pub to the flat I shared, when I saw a skinhead leaning on a lamp post. He was wearing scuffed black boots, a pair of loose-fitting black trousers, and a faded check shirt. He started to walk towards me.

I bunched my fists in my hand. Wallop him, then run, I thought. And shout. Draw some attention to yourself.

‘Hey,’ he called.

I started to run in the direction I’d come from.

‘Hey! Tom! It’s me! Roland.’

I slowed to a stop and turned around.

‘Roland?’

He grinned and ran his hand over his skinhead. His teeth were yellow and seemed long. I realized it was because his gums had receded. ‘Look a bit different, don’t I?’

He looked terrible. Thin, gaunt, red-eyed.

‘Sorry I haven’t seen you for a while,’ he said. ‘I’ve been busy.’

I shrugged. ‘It’s all right.’

‘How’s Mum?’

‘She’s all right.’

‘And the old man?’

‘All right.’

‘Everybody all right, then?’

‘Yeah.’

He laughed and punched me in the shoulder. There wasn’t much force behind it. ‘Look at you. Typical engineer. One word answers for everything.’

‘Fuck off,’ I said. ‘That’s two words.’

‘Anyway,’ he said. ‘I need a hand.’

I tensed. Whatever Roland was going to get me into, I probably didn’t want to be involved in it.

‘I’ve got to get home,’ I said.