He watches as his dad makes himself a cup of tea; his tanned arms are sinewy in his polo shirt. He’s always felt he knew just the kind of man his father was. Strict, old-fashioned, brilliant, old-money, educated and controlling. But not a pervert.

Or a stalker or psychopath.

Are you those things, Dad? he silently asks.

Theo wonders, as he surveys him pressing his teabag against his mug, whether he has ever loved his father. He’d pitied him, yes, felt a sense of duty towards him, felt responsible for him after his mother died. But love? He’s not sure. Maybe when he was a kid, when he was still full of hope that his dad might care about him, become the father he’d always wished for. He realizes, with a jolt, that he doesn’t like his dad. He’s cold and he’s hard and Theo is fed up with trying to make excuses for him in his own mind.

He could walk out of here now and not look back. And if it wasn’t for the fact that he’d worry his mum would be disappointed in him, then he would. He doubts his dad would give a shit if he never visited again.

‘Right,’ says Theo, jumping down from the bar stool. ‘I’m off.’

His dad turns to him, surprise on his face. ‘You don’t want a cup of tea?’

He hesitates. Does his dad want him to stay? He’s as hard to read as a stone statue. Is it a peace offering? And then he remembers Larry’s words, the complaint of sexual misconduct by Cynthia Parsons. He remembers his mother’s red eyes and the bruises she hid. He remembers how he’d cowered as a kid when his dad was in one of his ranting moods. But then he looks into his father’s blue eyes, the whites of which are yellowing with age, and he feels a twinge of compassion. He’s an old man. He’s probably lonely. ‘Go on, then,’ he finds himself saying.

30

Saffy

TOM PULLS A SICKIE THE NEXT MORNING, LIKE HE PROMISED last night, even though I tell him there’s no need.

‘I just want to make sure he doesn’t come back,’ he says over breakfast. It’s raining – for the first time in weeks – and the cottage feels cold and damp. The windows need replacing, not that we can think of that at the moment with everything else going on, not to mention the expense. It’s going to cost enough to get the extension done, but a draught is seeping through the ill-fitting frames and I shiver in my pyjamas as I nurse a Red Bush tea – the only thing I can stomach – at the kitchen table. I’m exhausted after spending all night tossing and turning and worrying about Mum and that man who calls himself Glen Davies.