Jason took a long shower. In spite of himself he’d enjoyed being at the beach but, as he rinsed off the sand and salt, he couldn’t wash away what he’d seen earlier. He had no idea what to do.

What loomed between him and his father also couldn’t be washed away. During the afternoon he’d glanced at Patrick once or twice, watching his actions and movements, listening to what he said, concluding that yes, something intrinsic had changed in him. It was a metamorphosis, as if he was gradually becoming a different person, a man very unlike the one Jason knew as a kid. He screwed up his eyes, allowing the hot water to wash over him. When Shona had told him about the Alzheimer’s months ago, Jason had initially felt anything but sympathy.

All things considered, it was easier to stay away from Trevellin.

He put on a shirt his mother had given him on his last birthday when she’d been in London. He’d never ask her to take sides, but as they’d sat in the Fulham café, he admitted to himself that he was looking for clues – maybe even hoping for clues – that his father was softening, perhaps even showing remorse. If he was honest, he missed him terribly.

‘What you must understand about Dad, darling, is that he firmly believes everyone should graft. Make their own way in life like he did,’ Shona had said, but now, with Greta heavily pregnant, he couldn’t comprehend how a man could shut out his own son.

‘I was ill, Mum. I needed help, and more than just financial.’ From the moment Jason announced, aged eighteen, that he wanted to be an actor, Patrick’s thermostat switched to cool.

‘He’s old school, love. He thought acting was a cop-out.’ Shona had said this before, and always with a small smile. Jason had been surprised when she’d once confessed her long-held dream to be on the stage. But marriage, the farm, a family had put a stop to that.

‘Maybe Dad’s right,’ Jason had said. ‘I’m not cut out for it.’

‘He was hoping you’d take over the farm one day. He took it as a personal slight, as if you didn’t value everything he’d achieved. Trevellin was his life and he wanted it to be yours.’ Shona sighed, knowing she was treading a fine line. ‘And your dad doesn’t understand mental health. I think deep down he blamed himself for how you were.’

‘It actually felt like the opposite, like he wanted me to be out of the way and have nothing to do with the farm.’ Jason pondered this for a moment. ‘Anyway, let’s be honest, Mum. Not long after I came to London, I got addicted to smack. That’s hardly Dad’s fault. I was still grieving and riddled with guilt about what happened to Lenni. We all handled it differently, and my reaction came out much later. Understanding and love was what I needed.’

Shona nodded, sipping her drink to cover the quiver of her lips. But Jason still noticed.

‘My life carried on pretty much as normal the morning after Lenni disappeared,’ he continued. ‘I forced it to carry on as normal, that’s how selfish I was. I put on my uniform and I went to school. I did my homework and I walked the dog. I hung out with my mates and got on with growing up. It was my way of coping with the chaos around me. I went suddenly from the middle child to being the youngest child.’ Jason could see by his mother’s expression that she’d never considered that before. ‘Then, at college in London, everything was different. I was surrounded by people like me – broken people, creative people, desperate people, and people searching for something else in life. They helped me forget, while the drugs took away the pain.’

Jason recalled the day he’d finally plucked up the courage to go back home. It was the second lowest point of his life and he reckoned the only thing that would save him. He was an addict, penniless, and knew if something didn’t change, he’d be dead within a year. He’d got on a train without a ticket at Paddington, then hitched from Exeter to Trevellin. His father was in the yard when he tramped down the drive, a dirty canvas pack slung over his back. When Patrick finally recognised his own son, the cold look he gave him made him want to turn around and go right back to the squat.

‘Dad,’ he said, dropping his bag to the ground as they stared at each other. Jason felt his skin prickling with sweat, the shakes getting worse. He knew he looked dreadful, reflected in his father’s expression. Decline happens gradually in your own mirror. Wiping yellowed and dirty fingers down his face, feeling the deep familiar ache in his joints, he pushed his next fix from his mind.

‘Your mother’s inside,’ was all Patrick said. Later, at dinner, Jason broke down. He pushed his plate aside and dropped his head into his hands. He told them everything – about the drugs, his hopeless life, how he couldn’t carry on. How he thought he was going to die from the guilt. His mother was beside him, holding him, waiting for assurance from Patrick that everything would be all right, that they’d get help for him, that they’d get through this as a family like they’d always done.

‘I want to come home,’ Jason had said, sobbing, his pride long gone. ‘London’s not such a good place for me right now.’ He remembered relief exuding from his mother. But there was nothing from his father. ‘I can work for you on the farm, Dad. It’s what you always wanted, isn’t it?’ He lifted his face. ‘Maybe I can even renovate the old cottage. Make it my own like Claire is doing with the Old Stables. I’ll go to the clinic, get healthy again.’ Jason swallowed, hating how desperate he sounded, wondering what else he could do to make the look on his father’s face go away.

‘We make our own beds,’ Patrick said calmly.

‘Pat?’ Shona said, watching as he continued eating. After three more mouthfuls, he set down his spoon.

‘The cottage is too far gone anyway.’

Jason blocked out the rest of the evening, obliterating it entirely with the emergency wrap he’d got tucked in the lining of his coat. When his parents had gone to bed, he retraced his steps up the drive, past Claire’s house with lamps shining behind the curtains. She didn’t even know he’d been home. The kitchen blinds were open, so he stopped for a moment and watched the scene inside. Callum was sipping on a drink, tapping his phone, while Claire stood at the sink. She’d worn the same expression since Lenni had gone missing – tight, expectant, sad. Not quite her. As if she’d been holding her breath all this time.

Jason pulled up his coat collar, shoved his hands deep in his pockets. He walked on. Hitching got him to the station by 3 a.m. and he slept on a bench until the first train back to London. The squat was freezing but filled with familiar faces, familiar smells and the familiar filth of a life he didn’t want any more. He stood in the wrecked kitchen watching the other no-hopers and addicts. Then he turned and left, heading for the homeless shelter. He didn’t care how he got it, but there would be change in his life.

In the Fulham café, a tear trickled down Shona’s cheek. This was why she didn’t come to visit him very often, Jason supposed. Like Patrick, it had become easier not to face the truth.

‘Dad doesn’t understand about drugs any more than he understands about you asking for help. Seeing you like that, it felt as though he’d lost another child, as if the boy he once knew and loved had gone to the same place as Lenni.’ Shona pulled a tissue from her handbag. ‘What he didn’t realise is that you were the one with a chance of coming back.’

---

Jason wrapped the towel around his waist and went into the bedroom. Greta was already showered and changed, looking beautiful, if anything even larger, as she waited for him to dress. She was lying on her side on the unmade bed reading the newspaper. It was difficult to tell where her pale-blue tunic ended and the pastel duvet cover began. For all he knew, she might have been wearing all of it.

‘Are they asleep?’ he asked, stroking her belly.

‘Thankfully, yes. I hardly dare move.’ He didn’t think it would be long before she had to take maternity leave, though knowing Greta she’d try to keep working until the end.

He sat on the corner of the bed, cradling his head in his hands. He knew she’d want to go up to the farmhouse soon. She was enjoying the break from London and he didn’t want to spoil things for her. ‘I’m not sure I can face seeing Dad again today,’ he said. His thoughts in the shower had unsettled him. ‘I’ll walk you up to the farm, but I won’t stay. I’ll maybe do some job hunting online.’ It also meant he wouldn’t have to face Claire. He’d promised he’d call the police about the message she’d received, but since this morning the police had been on his mind for other reasons.

Greta sat up. ‘I was hopeful things were going OK between you and your dad.’

‘Only because he’s forgotten much of what’s happened, not because he wants to make up.’ He reached out and squeezed Greta’s leg. ‘Which only makes it harder.’

‘I was also hoping you’d be able to see a way around this. He’s your father, Jase. It’s a relationship that deserves healing.’ She moved closer. ‘Can I be honest? Really honest?’

Jason nodded, bracing himself.

‘I think you’re being a complete arse. I think you’re being selfish and self-indulgent, and not acting like the man I fell in love with.’ She swung her feet off the bed and slipped them into a pair of leather loafers that she hated wearing. Greta spent most of her life in heels. ‘Your dad’s ill, most likely unable to make the first move even if he wanted to. Perhaps your perception of him is really a reflection of yourself, Jason – stubborn, proud and stuck in the past.’ She sighed, followed by a big inhalation. ‘But I still love you to bits.’ She stood up. ‘I’m off up to the farmhouse to help out. No need to walk me up, but I do hope you come.’ She planted a kiss on her husband’s head and went downstairs, leaving Jason turning his phone over and over in his hand, more confused than ever.