'I haven't seen you for a while. How are you?'
His eyes flicked suspiciously towards her; his mouth started to move, but he made no sound. Then, seeming to lose interest, he turned his gaze towards a seagull which had landed on the windowsill clutching a crust of burger bun in its beak. He smiled.
Jenny said, 'You're looking well. How are you feeling?'
There was no answer. There seldom was, but the specialist had told her to keep talking to him like an adult as long as she could bear to. There was always a chance that some of it might be going in, he had said; she would know when he stopped comprehending entirely. Jenny looked for signs of recognition and saw a childlike quality in his face; almost playful as he gazed at the gull tearing at the scrap it had pinned beneath its foot.
'Dad, I need to ask you something. I've been trying to remember some things about when I was little. I thought it would be good to record them for Ross, put them together with some of the old photographs - something he can show his kids one day.'
Brian nodded, as if he understood perfectly well.
She dipped into her handbag and brought out several old Polaroids she'd dug out from a shoebox earlier that morning.
She showed them to him: pictures of her on a swing aged four or five in the back garden of their house, Brian smiling, pushing her with one hand, a cigarette in the other.
'I remember you putting that up. It was a birthday present, wasn't it?'
'Yes, that was your birthday. You were a little smiler. Look at you.' He took the photograph from her and stared at it.
Jenny felt a surge of excitement. 'You remember that?'
'That was the dress my mother made you. She slaved over that, cost her eyesight, she said.'
They were well-worn phrases, words she'd heard a thousand times before, but they'd been prompted by the pictures, not thrown up at random like most of what little he offered these days. She had to strike while she could.
'Oh damn, I must have forgotten to put it in. There was one I found with Katy written on the back. I couldn't think who she was . . .'
'Cousin Katy?'
Cousin? Jenny could only think of three first cousins, all of whom were boys.
'Katy's my cousin? You're sure?'
'Jim and Penny's little girl.'
Jim and Penny were Brian's brother and his wife. They only had one child, a son who was ten years younger than Jenny.
'I don't think that can be right, Dad.'
Brian dropped the photograph on the floor. 'You wouldn't get a cup of tea in this place if you were dying of thirst.'
Jenny picked it up. 'I don't remember a Katy. Jim and Penny only had Christopher, didn't they?'
'Oily bastard all dressed up in his suit and tie. Your mother thought he had money. Hah!'
Another familiar, but this time disconnected refrain – he was referring to the estate agent who had run off with Jenny's mother.
'I'm not talking about Mum now,' Jenny said. 'What happened to Cousin Katy?'
A second gull joined the first on the windowsill and snatched the remainder of the bun from its beak. Brian chuckled.
'Dad, it's important. I need to know.'
His eyes faded and seemed to mist over.
'Dad, please try.'
She took hold of his arm and shook it. He wrenched it away, the muscles in his forearms hard as iron.
'You remember, Smiler,' he said. 'You killed her.'
Acknowledgements
Writing a first book is an act of pure speculation. So what if it doesn't work, you say to yourself; at least I gave it a try. Writing a second, with a deadline to meet and people waiting expectantly for your manuscript, is a different enterprise entirely. Fortunately for me those people have been unfailingly supportive and encouraging. Special thanks go to Greg Hunt, my straight-talking screen-writing agent, who propelled me into writing novels with the unerring assertion that 'no one takes you seriously until you've written a book', and to Zoe Waldie, my literary agent, who has given me nothing but faultlessly sound advice. Huge thanks also to Maria Rejt, my publisher and editor at Macmillan, who has many fine gifts including the rare ability to convey her great wisdom in the subtlest and most respectful of ways, and also to all her friendly and highly professional team.
I would also like to thank my colourful and lively family and extended family, all of whom lend their unconditional support. In particular, my mother and stepfather, writers both, are always there with an understanding of what it takes to return day after day to the lonely task of putting one word after another, and my father, a musician, has consistently proved to me that a level head can rest on artistic shoulders. My wife and sons, daily spectators to the many ups and downs of the writer's life, make everything possible.
Ed Husain's book The Islamist (Penguin, London, 2007) was a great help in understanding the mind of the young Muslim radical. It is essential reading for anyone seeking to comprehend how young men raised in the West can be seduced by ugly extremism and also be delivered from it.
Finally, thanks to all those friends and former colleagues in the legal profession upon whom I rely for their experience and anecdotes, especially James Mclntyre, who leave me in no doubt that truth is always stranger than fiction.