“Well, cheerio,” said Maureen.

For a long time, he sat on a bench close to the abbey, trying to work out where to go. It was as if Harold had taken off his jacket, followed by his shirt, and then several layers of skin and muscle. Even the most ordinary things seemed overwhelming. A shop assistant began to wind up the striped awning and it made such a rattle the noise cut into his head. He looked along the empty street, knowing no one, having nowhere to belong, when, emerging from the opposite end, he saw David.

Harold stood. His heartbeat came so fast he could feel it in his mouth. It couldn’t be his son; he couldn’t be in Bath. And yet, looking at the stooped figure striding towards him, tugging on a cigarette, and with his black coat billowing out like wings, Harold knew it was David, and that they were going to meet. He was shaking so much he had to reach for the bench.

Even from this distance, he could tell David had grown his hair again. Maureen would be so pleased. She had wept bitterly the day he shaved his head. His walk was still the same; toppling and long-paced, his eyes fixed to the ground, his head bowed, as if other people were to be avoided. Harold called out: “David! David!” They were no more than fifty feet apart.

His son staggered as if he had lost his balance or tripped. He was maybe drunk, but that wouldn’t matter. Harold would buy him a coffee. Or a drink, if he preferred that. They could eat. Or not eat. They could do whatever his son wanted.

“David!” he called. He started to edge towards him. Gently, to show he meant no harm. A few more paces; that was all.

He remembered the skeletal thinness of David after the Lake District; the way his head balanced on top of his neck, suggesting his body had rejected the rest of the world and was interested only in consuming itself.

“David!” he called again; a little louder to make him look up.

His son caught his eye, but failed to smile. He glanced at Harold as if his father wasn’t there, or was part of the street but not something he recognized. Harold’s insides turned. He hoped he wouldn’t fall.

It wasn’t David. It was someone else. Another man’s son. He had allowed himself to believe for a few brief moments that David could appear at one end of a street, while Harold sat at the other. The young man took a sharp right and marched swiftly away, becoming smaller and less distinguishable, until with a snap he turned another corner. Harold kept watching, waiting in case the young man changed his mind and was David after all, but he didn’t.