‘I thought you’d drowned in the Pond. The Men’s Pond. The police knew you’d gone there after work. I knew it didn’t really make any sense, but – you never came back.’

There was the smell of something frying, onions and garlic, next door.

Joe closed his eyes. Opened them again. ‘Matty. I don’t understand. How you could have thought that. The letter.’

The word seemed alien, another language. Forming into something recognisable only slowly. ‘Letter?’ Matty said, lips dry. The whiskey smudging everything.

‘Yes.’

The note, in Rosa’s loft in Wood Green. Give this to Matty. ‘You sent me a letter?’

‘Yes. With the one to your mamma.’ He gazed over. ‘She never gave it to you.’ It wasn’t a question. He already understood. ‘Did she give you any of them?’

It was as if someone had reached into Matty, was ripping open the breastbone, peeling it back. He’d written letters.

Franklin had cooked spaghetti, and neither of them could eat it. Instead, Franklin went back to the kitchen and ate there, the occasional sound of his fork, the music on the radio very low. He’d seemed concerned for Joe, a hand on his shoulder, an alarming ease of affection. Had brought him water and told him not to drink any more whiskey.

Joe ignored him, and topped them both up. He kept shaking his head. ‘All this feckin’ time,’ he said, over and over.

‘What did it say? The letter?’

‘The first one just tried to explain I’d gone off for a few days, maybe a bit longer, and I’d write again really soon. We left pretty spur of the moment. Went up north. Lake District.’ Guilt in his grey eyes. ‘A few days later, I sent a forwarding address, once we knew we were going to go over to Canada. The phone number. Then I wrote every week.’

There was a cavity in Matty’s chest. A bleak, simple space.

Joe was watching. ‘She didn’t give you any of them, did she?’

‘No.’

‘How long were you at the house for?’

‘’Til November.’

A small, aching sigh. ‘God. And … your grandmother?’ He’d sent one to her, too. ‘Matty, you can’t think – I tried so many times to get in touch.’

Matty felt unutterably tired. Wanted to roll up in this chair and sleep forever, until only bones were left. ‘What happened? Why did you go?’ Dreading the answer.

‘OK,’ he said, sitting up straighter, one hand rubbing a knee. ‘You’ve no idea how many times I’ve rehearsed this in my head.’

A painful twang of recognition.

‘She hit me. Rosa. More than once. I tried to hide it from you. No one wants a dad who’s getting beaten up by a woman.’

‘I knew.’

‘Did you?’

‘Only later. After you’d gone.’ A deep, slow breath. ‘How long did it go on for?’