He lived again the afternoon he had driven Maureen to the funeral director’s to see David one last time in the coffin. She had packed a few things: a red rose, a teddy bear, and a pillow to go beneath his head. In the car, she had asked Harold what he was going to give, knowing he had nothing. The sun had shone very low, torching his eye as he drove. They both wore sunglasses. Even at home, she didn’t take them off.

At the funeral director’s she had surprised him by saying she wanted to say goodbye to David alone. He had sat outside with his head in his hands, waiting his turn, until a passer-by had stopped to offer a cigarette and Harold had taken it, although he had not smoked since the days on the buses. He tried to imagine what a father said to his dead son. His fingers shook so hard on the cigarette the passer-by used three matches to light it.

The thick nicotine caught in his throat and wound through his insides, causing them to tip upwards. As he stood and bent over a rubbish bin, he was met with the bitter stench of decay. Then, from behind him, the air was pierced with a harsh, deep sobbing cry, so animal in its intensity he was struck still, braced over the contents of the bin.

“No!” Maureen screamed from inside the funeral parlour. “No! No! No!” The words seemed to reverberate through him and beat against the metal sky.

Harold had heaved a white spume of foam into the bin.

When she came out, she caught his eye once, and then her hand shot to her sunshades. She had been crying so hard her whole being seemed liquid. He realized with shock how thin she’d grown; her shoulders were like a hanger inside her black dress. He wanted to walk to her, to hold her, and be held, but he smelt of the cigarette and his vomit. He hovered beside the bin, pretending he had not seen her, and she walked straight past him to the car. The space that set them apart shone against the sun like glass. He wiped his face and his hands, and eventually he went after her.

As they drove home in silence, Harold knew that something had passed between them which could never be undone. He had not said goodbye to his son. Maureen had; but Harold had not. There would always be this difference. There followed a small cremation, but she wanted no mourners. She hung up net curtains to stop people prying, although sometimes he felt it was more to stop herself from seeing out. For a while she railed, and blamed Harold, and then even that stopped. They passed one another on the stairs and were no more than strangers.