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touch him again; he wasn’t quite ready to be touched, to have his skin bristle so, as though he had been stripped of a protective layer; he wasn’t ready to lose so much control; he could be mistaken after all. But Harris seemed not to notice that he had stepped away from him and was saying, ‘Listen, Edmund, I’ve made my excuses already, said my goodbyes. Say an hour? The Queen’s Hotel, room 212. Yes?’
    Edmund nodded; he knew that if he spoke his voice would be a broken, feeble travesty of itself. It was shaming enough that he was nodding, acquiescent, that he wasn’t punching Harris’s face in, because surely this wasn’t what he really wanted, he had to be mistaken. But he had an erection, he couldn’t be so mistaken, and even if he wasn’t he didn’t have to be governed by lust. No, he didn’t have to do anything he didn’t want to do. He drew breath, was about to speak, when Harris turned and walked away.

Chapter Four
    P AUL HAD SAID , ‘D AD , I wish you hadn’t come.’ He had taken George’s arm, guiding him to a less crowded part of the gallery. ‘I’m sorry … It’s just –’
    â€˜Just what, Paul? Am I embarrassing you?’
    In his hotel room, Paul remembered glancing past his father’s shoulder, to the portrait of Patrick on their bed. He had felt sixteen again, as though George had discovered him masturbating. He had even felt himself colour – something he hadn’t done for years. But even through this embarrassment, he had noted that Patrick’s portrait had gathered a seemingly appreciative group.
    â€˜I’m really pleased to see you, of course,’ Paul had said.
    â€˜Of course.’
    â€˜Really. But it’s a shock – how did you know I was here?’
    George hesitated. ‘He wrote to me. Patrick wrote to me.’ Paul heard the effort it took for his father to say Pat’s name, but he seemed to recover himself quickly enough because his voice had an edge of impatience as he went on, ‘I wonder why he didn’t tell you. Did he want my turning up like this to be a shock, do you imagine, or was it just some kind of practical joke he played on us both?’
    â€˜A joke? No, he wouldn’t make fools of us, you should know better.’
    â€˜Should I?’
    â€˜Yes.’ Trying to keep the anger from his voice, Paul said, ‘He shouldn’t have troubled you.’
    â€˜ Trouble ? You’re my son, Paul. For God’s sake, boy – I wanted to see you, to see your work –’
    Paul had laughed, wanting only to dismiss his work , fumbling in his pocket for the fresh packet of cigarettes. As he was about to take one from the pack, George stopped him. ‘Don’t, not now. I won’t have you fiddling about with those things while I’m talking to you.’ He sighed. ‘You’re very thin. Are you well?’
    He’d shoved the cigarettes back into his pocket although he’d craved one, needing to take a great, calming lungful of smoke; he was shaking. From the moment he had seen his father he had been shaking because all he could think about were the questions he had to ask, how he might phrase them and still sound like a normal human being and not a wreck of grief and guilt. He cleared his throat, looking past his father as he managed to ask, ‘How’s Bobby?’
    â€˜He’s well.’
    Paul heard the note of softness in George’s voice and forced himself to meet his gaze. ‘He’s all right?’
    â€˜Yes! He’s a fine little boy.’
    â€˜They let you see him?’
    George smiled bitterly. ‘From time to time.’
    â€˜Often?’
    â€˜As I said, Paul, from time to time. He understands who I am, if that’s what you mean.’ After a moment he added, ‘I show him your photograph. I say, That’s Daddy. I say, Your Daddy loved you very much. Is that