"Did I hear you talking on the phone last night?" my father said.

I shook my head. "Nope."

We were finishing our lunch, sitting in the kitchen, me with my stew, my father with brown rice and seaweed salad. He had his Town Gear on; brown brogues, brown tweed three-piece suit, and on the table sat his brown cap. I checked my watch and saw that it was Thursday. It was very unusual for him to go anywhere on a Thursday, whether Porteneil or any further afield. I wasn't going to ask him where he was going because he'd only lie. When I used to ask him where he was going he would tell me "To Phucke', which he claimed was a small town to the north of Inverness. It was years and a lot of funny looks in the town before I learned the truth.

"I'm going out today," he told me between mouthfuls of rice and salad. I nodded, and he continued: "I'll be back late." Perhaps he was going to Porteneil to get drunk in the Rock Hotel, or perhaps he was off to Inverness, where he often goes on business he prefers to keep mysterious, but I suspected that it was really something to do with Eric.

"Right," I said.

"I'll take a key, so you can lock up when you want to." He clattered his knife and fork down on the empty plate and wiped his mouth on a brown napkin made from recycled paper. "Just don't put all the bolts on, all right?"

"Right."

"You'll make yourself something to eat this evening, h'm?"

I nodded again, not looking up as I ate.

"And you'll do the washing-up?"

I nodded again.

"I don't think Diggs'll come round again; but, if he does, I want you to stay out of his way."

"Don't worry," I told him, and sighed.

"You'll be all right, then?" he said, standing.

"M'm-h'm," I said, cleaning up the last of the stew.

"I'll be off, then."

I looked up in time to see him place his cap on his head and look round the kitchen, patting his pockets as he did so. He looked at me again and nodded.