Mr M. Fox. M for Mitchell, this being Malcolm’s grandmother’s maiden name. Mitch: everyone called Malcolm’s dad Mitch. It was a good strong name. Fox took a deep breath, knocked and walked in. His dad sat by the window, hands in his lap. He looked a little more gaunt, a little less animated. They were still shaving him, and his hair seemed freshly washed. It was fine and silver, and the sideburns were kept long, the way they’d always been.

‘Hiya, Dad,’ Fox said, resting against the bed. ‘How you doing?’

‘Mustn’t complain.’

Fox smiled at that, as was expected. You injured your back at the factory where you worked; you were on disability for years; then cancer came along and you got treated successfully, if painfully; your wife died soon after you got the all-clear; and then old age crept in.

And you mustn’t complain – because you were the head of the family, the man of the house.

Your son’s own marriage broke up after less than a year; he already had a problem with drink, but it got worse then, for a while; your daughter flew far from the nest and kept in touch infrequently, until landing back home with an unlikeable partner in tow.

But you couldn’t complain.

At least your room didn’t smell of piss, and your son came to see you when he could. He’d done pretty well for himself, all things considered. You never asked if he liked what he did for a living. You never thanked him for the fees he paid on your behalf.

‘I forgot to bring you chocolate.’

‘The girls fetch it, if I tell them to.’

‘Turkish Delight? Not so easy to find these days.’

Mitch Fox nodded slowly, but didn’t say anything.

‘Has Jude been round?’

‘I don’t think so.’ The eyebrows bunched together. ‘When was it I saw her?’