Harry isn’t surprised to find him at the front door, newspaper in hand, hair an uncombed mess, barely out of his pyjamas, hopping about on the doormat like an agitated rooster. Famous for forcing the issue, he’s never been one to duck a contest, always encouraging the boys to be direct. “Are you going to invite me in?” he says, pulling at the fly wire. Harry reluctantly steps aside. They head straight into the kitchen where Harry offers him a coffee. “No. I’m right,” he says. It isn’t a social call. They lean against the kitchen cupboards as Laurie demands to know what is going on. “What do you mean?” says Harry, churlish, as though he is being accused of something frivolous, a heartless prank orchestrated at his expense by some numbnuts in the locker room. What is going on? It is the sort of thing a teacher might say when they know exactly what is going on. The prelude to many a detention. He has the same fight or flight response (hit or be hit), thinking, everything, nothing, what’s it to you, Harry having cleaned the piss from the floor, set his father’s clothes in the machine to wash, the doctor having worked his magic, Alan now bathed and sedated, “resting comfortably”
