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The bloke on the doorstep looks nothing like his father. This guy is smaller, weaker, a sad apology of a man with eyebrows like grey caterpillars and worn-out, yellow teeth like an aged wolf’s.

‘Hi, son.’

He sneers. ‘Bit late in the day to call me that. I haven’t seen you in six years. You’ve hardly been a father, have you? What do you want? Mum’s out.’

‘I know she is. I wanted to see you. See how you were doing.’ His father studies his brown shoes with frayed laces.

‘I’m fine so thank you for your concern and goodbye.’ He pushes the door but his father shoves his large foot in the way, preventing it from shutting.

‘Please hear me out,’ he pleads.

‘I don’t really want to hear you at all.’

His father shifts slightly. ‘I know. I can’t expect you to forgive me. I wanted to make it up to you though.’

He snorts. ‘And how do you intend doing that?’

‘I met someone who might be able to assist with your project,’ he says.

‘What project?’ he asks, eyebrows high in mock amusement.

‘I still have friends with influence. One of them told me you’ve been hanging about the betting shops in town and asking blokes to place bets on football teams for you, then sharing the profit when you win.’

He crosses his arms. ‘So what if I have? It’s hardly a project, is it?’

‘Let me come in and I’ll explain. I picked up a lot while I was banged up in jail. I have skills now and I can help you become wealthy. But if you’re not interested in what I have to say, I understand.’

He studies the man who had once beaten him on a regular basis. Could he trust somebody so volatile? At the same time, his brain whirs with possibilities. Maybe the old man had learnt how to cheat the system while he was in jail, and would it hurt to hear him out? His father stands patiently.

In the end, curiosity wins out. ‘Come in, but only for a few minutes. If I don’t like what you tell me, I’ll throw you out myself.’

‘Sure. I understand. You look like you can stand on your own two feet fine,’ says his father as he crosses the threshold into the house. He hesitates for a second. ‘Doesn’t look like I remember it,’ he says eventually.

‘Nothing’s like it was. You’ve got two minutes to explain what you mean.’

His father nods. ‘Sure. I heard you’ve been placing bets on the football games.’

‘And?’

‘And it’s a mug’s game. You’ll lose more than you’ll make, and even if you win big on a match, you’ll lose it all again. I met loads of blokes when I was banged up who wasted money on betting. We all did it inside. It was a way to pass the time. We’d bet on almost anything: football matches, horses, snooker games – you name it, we’d bet on it.’

‘If that’s all you have to tell me, you can bugger off.’

His father looks at his feet again. ‘No, that’s not it. I want to help. I did a lot of thinking while I was inside. You get too much time alone. You get too much time to realise how you’ve affected others and how you’ve ruined their lives. I did wrong. I was quick-tempered, always hit first and thought afterwards. It was the drink. I know that’s not a good excuse but the drink changed me. I wasn’t a bad man. I was a man who couldn’t control his drinking. It became an addiction. Your mum tried to tell me I had a drinking problem but I didn’t listen. I don’t think alcoholics want to hear the truth. We hide it away. We can only focus on the next drink.’ He licked his lips again, shifted again uncomfortably. ‘I’m over that. I don’t drink any more. I really am a different man. I found God in jail and I’ll never be the man you knew again.’

He resists the urge to snigger. His father’s too sincere about this to laugh at him, however ridiculous this sounds. His father finding religion! He wants to interrupt and tell him to leave, but his dad keeps talking, trying to explain.

‘This is my way of making amends. I know a bloke, Sid, who runs the betting shop near the railway station in Stoke. He’s a good man. I met him at our local church. He and I got chatting. He knows all about me, and about your mum, sister and you. I told him how I ended up in prison. I explained how I’d screwed up my life. I don’t suppose you’d understand but I’m not proud of myself. I let you all down. Anyhow, I’ve been keeping my ear to the ground, asking about you and trying to find out how you’re all doing.’

‘We’re doing fine. You don’t need to check up on us.’

‘I wasn’t checking up. I wanted to know how you all were. I missed you.’ He sighs, shakes his head and continues, ‘Sid’s in his early sixties now. He’s willing to take you on at his betting shop. You won’t be able to handle the bets yet cos of your age, but he’ll pay you for work out the back, show you the ropes and you’ll learn a career – a proper job. If you’re any good, you’ll be able to take over when he retires in a few years’ time. The real money is behind the counter, not in front of it. I told him about you and how you’d done well at maths at school. I also heard you’d been placing bets, getting others to make them and splitting the winnings. You’ve made a few good calls. I told Sid about that too, and he’d like to meet you.’ He gives his son a weak smile. ‘I don’t expect you to forgive me but maybe this will go towards helping us become friends. I’m a changed man. Not drunk a drop since I went inside. I’m not the man you remember. This is the new me.’

Something about his father’s demeanour embarrasses him. The man seems weaker, less confident and more subservient. He wants to please. It’s written all over his craggy face. It would be so easy to plant a kick into the old man’s abdomen and get payback for all the hurt he caused in the past, but he’s too defenceless. Something about him suggests he’d allow his son to bash him up. He’d roll over and accept it. It’s pathetic.

He watches Paul Scholes slam the ball into the back of the net on the TV and considers his father’s words. Working at a betting shop appeals to him. He’d enjoy that. He looks at his father, so eager to make amends. It’ll never happen but he will take him up on the job offer. What’s he got to lose?