‘All right, Dad.’

Sean was struck by the fact that his father had shrunk since he last saw him. Folds of dry, bristled skin met round his mouth and his skin had a yellow tinge. A slow smile revealed more gaps than teeth. Jack Denton wasn’t even sixty, and Sean had mistaken him for an old pensioner.

‘Sean, lad! You coming in for a cuppa?’

There was still plenty of time to get to the estate agents’ before they closed. Jack had been a bugger all his life, but he was still his dad. It wouldn’t hurt to spend five minutes with him. As he followed his father up to the first floor flat, Sean told himself that Jack couldn’t hurt him now. That was all a long time ago.

In Jack’s hallway it looked like someone had tried to decorate. One wall was painted a muddy orange, which petered out before it reached the ceiling, and a new vacuum cleaner stood in the doorway of the lounge. It would take more than a vacuum cleaner, Sean thought, to find the pattern in that carpet; it was dark with grease.

‘Nice colour paint.’

‘That was Eileen’s idea. Terracotta she says. Not finished yet. Needs someone with a stepladder to do that last bit.’

Jack headed for the kitchen.

‘Who’s Eileen?’ Sean said.

His dad coughed and it caught in his throat so he couldn’t answer for a moment.

‘Lady friend. She stays over, keeps the place in shape.’

The kitchen was grubby and strewn with dirty plates, but someone had put a bunch of artificial flowers in a vase on the table.

‘Good. That’s good.’

Jack bent stiffly to put a carton of milk in the fridge and Sean noticed there wasn’t much else in there. No food, but also a curious absence of beer cans, both in the fridge and on the side, and not a bottle of whisky in sight.

‘Dad,’ Sean asked carefully, ‘have you packed in drinking?’

His father stood up straight and turned to face him.

‘Doctor’s orders, son. My body can’t take it. I’ve been off four weeks and counting. They’ve even got me going to AA meetings.’

‘That’s great.’

‘Aye, well, it was that or die and I’m not ready yet. Are you going to put that kettle on?’

Sean filled the kettle and considered this new information carefully while Jack shuffled off into the lounge; Sean heard him lighting a cigarette.

‘Eileen’s gone to her sister’s,’ Jack called through to Sean. ‘Bit of fresh air, you know.’

‘Right,’ Sean said.

Any air would seem fresh compared to this flat. She must have been gone a few days and Jack wasn’t keeping up her good work. Sean found a couple of clean mugs in a cupboard and made two cups of tea.

‘Here you go.’

In the lounge, Jack was staring into space, the ash building up on the tip of his cigarette. He looked momentarily startled to see Sean standing there. He focused and reached for the mug.

‘What are you going to eat for your tea?’ Sean sat down next to him, carefully checking the settee for anything that might stick to his jeans. ‘Was Eileen doing your cooking?’

Jack shrugged. ‘Not that hungry.’

‘But you’ve got to eat. Do you want me to ring for a pizza before I go?’

‘Don’t be bloody daft,’ Jack snapped. ‘They don’t deliver in the blocks any more. Haven’t done for ages. Where have you been?’

Sean felt like telling him exactly where he’d been. He’d kept his head down and got himself a good job.

‘I didn’t know.’

‘Too many delivery boys getting robbed. Drugs mind, you can get them any time, delivered to the door. Not my thing, but there you go.’

‘Dad, be careful what you’re telling me.’

‘You still a frigging copper? You want to give that up, get a proper job.’ Jack Denton started to sing. ‘Maggie Thatcher’s boot boys, Maggie Thatcher’s boot boys, tra-laa la la, tra-laa la la!’

He cackled himself into a coughing fit and Sean was saved from having to justify himself by his phone vibrating in his pocket. He got up and went through to the kitchen.

‘Hello?’

‘PC Denton?’

Sean didn’t recognise the voice.

‘Yes.’

‘This is Wendy Gore from Professional Standards. We’re looking into a complaint that’s been filed.’

‘Right.’

‘Can you come in for a meeting tomorrow, first thing, with myself and your divisional inspector? Nine o’clock.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

It wasn’t a question; it was a command. He looked through the half open door into the lounge. His father drank from the mug, missed his mouth and wiped his face on his sleeve. Wendy Gore ended the call.

‘I’ll nip out and get you some chips, if you like,’ Sean said.

The estate agents’ would be closing soon, but the studio apartment could wait, at least until after his meeting in the morning.

Jack winced. ‘I have to be careful what I eat. Can’t handle most things, if I’m honest. Bit of white bread. Or the fish out of the middle of the batter. Everything else, you know, just goes straight through. Chips are no good.’

Sean didn’t think he was putting on the self-pity. He really was ill.

‘What does the doctor say?’

‘They do tests. I have some pills, but my liver’s had it. It’s only a matter of time, then I’m finished. There, that’ll put a smile on your soft face!’

‘Don’t be daft.’

But was it daft? Hadn’t he wished him dead every time he’d run out of the flat to Maureen’s or hidden in the woods around the quarry? His mum had died from a brain haemorrhage when he was ten, and for years he’d held onto the idea that Jack Denton was in some way responsible. His temper was horrible in those days, but looking at him now, it was hard to believe he could hurt a fly.

‘Why don’t I go out and get you a can of soup, eh? Could you manage chicken? And a bit of toast?’

Jack’s faced creased in a smile.

‘You’ve got such a look of your mam,’ he said, ‘standing there. Get us mushroom, will you? I prefer mushroom.’

Sean suppressed a shiver and headed for the front door.

On the way back from the shop, Sean saw a group of men coming out of Eagle Mount Two, heading for Eagle Mount One. By the time he got to the entrance hallway, they were going up in the lift. Sean took the stairs and was at Jack’s door in time to see a man in a white T-shirt shoving a leaflet through the letter box. He bent down and called through the slot.

‘Jack! Will we be seeing you at the meeting?’

‘Is it my dad you’re after?’ Sean said.

The man stood up and looked at him.

‘Your dad? I didn’t realise he had a son.’

Sean let it go.

‘Just seeing if he’s coming to the meeting,’ the man continued, fixing Sean with surprisingly blue eyes.

‘AA?’ Sean said.

‘You what?’

‘Is it an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting?’

Sean wondered whether he’d breached a code of confidentiality as the man frowned and the muscles in his neck tightened. He was a little over six foot, early thirties at a guess, with a tattoo on his neck that read: Made in England. Sean instinctively took a step back.

‘No, mate, it’s the CUC.’

He thrust a leaflet at Sean. The title was in large black letters: Clean Up Chasebridge – Public Meeting. Thursday June 2nd 6.30 p.m.

‘It’s at the community centre. Getting everyone involved in improving the estate.’

‘Right,’ Sean said.

‘I haven’t seen you before, have I?’

The other man didn’t appear to be in a hurry to go, although the rest of his group could be heard clattering up the concrete stairs to the next floor. Sean shrugged and shook his head.

‘I’ve been living … away.’

He wasn’t sure why he said it like that, but something told him that he needed to be cautious.

‘Working?’

‘Something like that.’

‘Right,’ the man smiled and the eyes lit up. ‘Give my regards to Jack. Tell him Terry was asking after him.’

Sean let himself in with Jack’s key. He took the shopping into the kitchen. As he passed the lounge he could see Jack fast asleep on the settee. He stood at the kitchen window and looked out across the dual carriageway to the rough edge of the fields and the woods beyond. Tomorrow’s meeting with Wendy Gore filled him with dread. The little boy inside him wished he could run away and hide in the woods until it was all over.