Leo walked back into the kitchen, stashing his phone in the back pocket of his jeans. ‘Sorry, Dad, stupid work thing.’

Michael felt sweat trickling down his back. He almost couldn’t look at his son, fearing his excruciating memories might somehow be written on his face.

Leo refilled the pot and poured them both more tea. Then he settled at the table and gave his father a grin. ‘So, Dad, have you thought some more about what you’re going to do?’

‘Do?’ He tried to clear his thoughts, welcoming the chance to focus on something different, despite the subject being a contentious one.

‘Yeah, Dad. We talked about this the other day. Work …’

Joke. Like the world was waiting with bated breath. ‘I’m back!’ he’d shout. And all his clients, the judges, court officials, his competitive colleagues – who’d probably been cheering from the rafters at his demise – would overlook the fact that he couldn’t hold a pen and paper at the same time, could only type with one finger of one hand, couldn’t remember if it was Monday or last year, had to pee every ten minutes and couldn’t fucking stand upright without the help of a crutch. Christ, I couldn’t even put my wig on straight, these days, let alone fasten my bands or collar stud.

He levelled his gaze at his son. ‘Face it. I’m not going to be able to work, Leo, not even in a limited capacity, not for a long time … probably ever.’

He watched his son’s face fall. ‘Come on, Dad. Look at Andrew Marr. He’s presenting one of the most prestigious programmes on TV and he had the same as you. You can’t just give up like this.’

Michael growled silently. Sodding Andrew Marr. Held up as the poster-crock for every stroke patient from here to eternity. He loathed him for it. ‘Being a television host doesn’t carry quite the same level of responsibility as being a QC, all due respect to the man.’

Leo frowned. ‘So … what? You’re going to just sit here for the rest of your life and feel sorry for yourself?’

Michael nodded. ‘Probably.’ He didn’t care what Leo thought – or anyone else, for that matter. They could harangue him all they liked, feed him pills he didn’t want, make him eat vegetables and move balls from one box to another with that moron glove; it wouldn’t mend what was going on in his head. Nor did it change the fact that Romy – even if they did come together for family occasions – would never look at him again without that veiled aversion in her eyes.

Leo’s face cleared and he laughed. ‘Hey, knock yourself out, then, Dad.’