Martin Cooper knocked on his son’s bedroom door. ‘You OK in there?’

There was no reply. He knocked again, but the door stayed closed. He was pretty sure James was home; he’d come back from a run about an hour ago and heard the sound of the shower. If James had left since then he would have told his parents. As a family, they were sensitive about people disappearing without explanation. They’d had enough of that to last a lifetime.

He considered trying the door but decided against it. It was probably locked – James had installed a small bolt on the inside the summer before – but if it wasn’t, the last thing Martin needed was to walk in on his son masturbating, headphones on and phone in hand.

So he knocked again, louder this time.

He was about to walk away when he heard James’s voice.

‘Who is it?’

‘It’s me, Dad. Can I come in?’

‘Sure.’

He opened the door. James was lying on his bed. He had had his headphones on, although they were now lying on his chest.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I was listening to music. The Cure.’

Martin nodded. ‘Great band.’

‘You know them?’

‘Of course I do. They were big in the eighties. I saw them live at the Liverpool Empire.’

‘You saw them live?’

‘Why so surprised, Jimbo? You don’t think your old man’s cool enough to go to music concerts?’

‘Music concerts?’ James said. ‘Try gigs.’

‘I’ve forgotten more about gigs than you’ll ever know.’

‘Right. I doubt that, Dad.’

‘Let’s see. The Cure, The Smiths, Joy Division, New Order.’ Martin paused. ‘UB40, twice. The Housemartins. Depeche Mode. There are others.’

‘Really?’

‘Really. And then there’s Grandpa. He saw the Beatles at the Cavern.’

‘That’s not true.’

‘It is. More than once.’

‘That’s unbelievable.’

‘It seems so, now.’ Martin sat on the bed. ‘But they were just another band back then. So make sure you go and see the good bands of your generation. Then when you’re my age you’ll be able to surprise your kids with how cool you used to be.’

James laughed. ‘You’re still not cool, Dad. It’d take more than a Cure concert to make you cool.’

‘You might be right.’ He studied his son. ‘Everything OK?’

James’s eyes moistened and he looked away. It took a few seconds for him to reply.

‘Not really.’

‘Me neither,’ Martin said. ’But Mum’ll be OK.’

Martin’s throat constricted. Tears came to his eyes. He put his arms around James. They hugged for a long time, then Martin leaned back. In some ways James might still be an adult but in others he was still his baby son. He would always be his baby son.

‘By the way,’ he said. ‘Mr Best is coming for lunch at two, but that gives us a few hours. Want to go for a pint?’