“Good old Harry,” the old man muttered quietly after a moment. “He said as much. He told me you were thinking that. And I told him he was wrong. Rarely wrong, is Harry. I should know that by now.”

He sat back and turned to Alex. “But, Alex: really? That’s what you’ve been thinking? Now: no. You listen very carefully. That . . . thing is not your father. Your father died.” He broke off and cleared his throat before going on. “Your father died. Thirteen years ago. If anyone knows that, it’s me. I was there, son. I . . . You know all this. You know it—”

“But I saw him,” Alex broke in, surprised how calm he sounded. He felt sorry for what his grandfather was going through. The old man had carried this secret alone for a long time, shouldering the burden to protect Alex and his mum. Now, even after Alex had told him he knew the truth, his grandfather seemed desperate to keep up the pretense. But Alex was more determined to get it out in the open.

“I saw his face,” Alex pressed gently. “It’s obvious. And the girl. Zia. Her face. His daughter . . . my sister. Little sister. Half sister.”

“Alex, for the love of— Do you honestly think I would’ve kept something like that from you? From your mother? Yes, there are things I’ve not told you, but this? Get it through your head: that man is not your father.”

“Well, who is he then?” Alex heard his voice explode as patience evaporated. “If he isn’t my dad, what’s the big deal? Why the big secret? If he isn’t my dad, what’s it matter? Because he is, isn’t he?” He folded his arms and stared out at the traffic streaming by.

“Alex. Okay. Listen. He isn’t.” His grandfather chewed his lip. “Look, I was going to tell you all of this. One day.”

Alex refused to look at him.

“Alex. He’s not your father—he’s . . .” The old man trailed off, looking around as though searching for help, or a way out. Finally, he hung his head, spread his hands in a gesture of defeat, and said something.

One word. It coincided with the angry scream of a horn from a truck rattling past outside. Alex was certain he had misheard.

“What?”

After another heavy pause, his grandfather said it again:

“Mine.”

“Mine? What do you mean, mine? Your what?”

The old man looked up, smiled sadly.

“He’s not your father, Alex. He’s mine. He’s my father.”

X.

FLOWER POWER

They had been driving again for some time before Alex spoke. He had been thinking carefully about precisely how to frame his next question:

“Whu?”

“Hmm?”