He went downstairs and unlocked the doors and put the blackboard outside and switched on the pumps and put the cellar lights on and wished he had never even thought to look in his daughter’s journal.

One o’clock. Time to take a break, see if Alicia was ready to talk. The stairs felt a thousand miles high.

“How are you doing, love? Did you get that sandwich?”

She shrugged.

“You know I’m not angry with you, don’t you? I’m only angry with… ”

“You’re not angry with me?” Suddenly she was on her feet, squaring up to him. “Well, just so’s you know, I am absolutely fucking furious with you, okay?”

“Don’t swear.”

“Because that’s the important thing here.”

“Look, pet… ”

“I’m not your pet.”

“We need to talk about this.”

“You want to doesn’t mean we need to. But it’s always about what you want, isn’t it?”

Derailing him. Trying to put him on the defensive. He had to admire her skill. “You only need to tell me his name. That’s all. I’ll do absolutely everything else, I swear.”

She sat at her desk and took out an exercise book. Was this a breakthrough? He waited patiently. She found a ruler, drew a straight careful line down the left of the page. Wrote the date in the corner.

“What are you doing?”

“My history homework.”

“You said you didn’t have holiday homework.”

“Well, I do. But I didn’t think I needed to tell you. I thought maybe you might have found that out already. Do you go through my room a lot?”

“Of course I don’t go through your room a lot! What kind of a person do you think I am? I did it because… ”

“Sorry, but I really need to get on with this.” Alicia turned elaborately away and began to frown over her paper. It was bravado, he could see from here that her hand was shaking and she wasn’t actually writing anything, but it was a good pantomime for someone her age.

Some girls would have crumbled by now, but not his daughter. She had grit. It was the first time in his life he’d wished she was less like him.

George came in for his Heineken and his pork scratchings, spreading the packet out on the table and picking them meticulously up between thick fingers. Was it George? he thought. For God’s sake, what was the matter with him, suspecting George of all people? George peeled the label from the bottle in one smooth satisfying piece, then he left it on the table, where it grew soggy. Donald cleared the table and wondered for the thousandth time why people – especially people in pubs – felt such a compelling urge to destroy things, then leave the pieces for someone else to pick up.

“You look stressed,” said George, astoundingly.

“What?”

“You look stressed,” George repeated. “I saw a documentary on Tuesday night about workplace stress. It was very interesting.”

“Do I?”

“Yes. It’s bad for your body in a lot of ways, to be stressed. You should go and see your doctor about it.”