It takes a moment for this to sink in.

Like an idiot, I say, ‘Are you sure?’

Andi gives a sad little laugh. ‘Yes, Malky, pet, I’m sure. Late last night. Just like that. In his bed. He was very old and … I think he was almost expecting it. I’m sorry you found out like this.’ She’s still hanging on to the front door and we stay on the steps.

I’m wondering what to do. I don’t think I’m even sad, not yet. Instead, I’m seeing my only chance of rescuing Seb evaporating.

Susan blurts out, ‘Can we come in?’

Andi gives her a funny look and Susan’s bottom lip quivers. ‘It’s just … he reminded me of my grandad, and I’d like to take a last look around.’

For someone who never lies, Susan is pretty good at it when she has to be.

‘Erm …’ says Andi. ‘Yeah. Why not? Come in.’ She clearly thinks this is strange and I don’t really blame her. She stands aside and we enter the tall dark hallway. I feel I need to say something now.

‘I’d just, you know, like to see his room one more time.’

Oh no. That really does sound suspicious. And morbid. It’s not like we knew him well. Andi shrugs and shows us in. I reach for the hand-san and then realise with a pang of genuine sadness that I don’t need it any more.

I suppose that is when it hits me. I liked Kenneth McKinley. His chair is in the same position. The strange thing is that the cushion where he used to sit is still indented, like Seb’s pillow was. I never thought that a bum-print from a dead man could be so sad.

I clear my throat to speak and it sounds loud in the huge room.

‘Where is he? I … I mean, his body?’

Andi is staring out of the huge bay window and doesn’t turn round. ‘The funeral directors came first thing. It was all written down. He had moments of pure clarity, when he knew he didn’t have long, and he could be very precise. There’ll be a funeral, but, like I say, he didn’t have any family.’

‘There’s Uri,’ I say.

‘What?’ says Andi.

‘Uri. His son.’

Andi sits down heavily on the green buttoned sofa. ‘Malky, Susan. There is no Uri. At least, not now. Kenneth lived in his own little world half the time. Uri died years ago. Decades. Kenneth used to comfort himself by imagining he was still with us.’

‘But … the phone calls?’ I say, pointing at the old telephone next to his chair.

‘A remote timer. One of Kenneth’s … fans, I suppose, from the old days, set it up for him years ago, apparently. It would ring every few days at the same time. He knew, of course, but he just liked pretending. He used to say he could reconnect with his son in his … his …’

She trails off, staring out at the sea.

‘In his dreams?’ I say, and she turns back sharply.

‘Yes. Exactly. It was all part of, I don’t know, his “cosmic vision”. His hippy stuff. You know he used to be on the stage?’

Susan and I nod. ‘We saw a bit on that tape,’ she says.

‘I thought that was what that was about,’ murmurs Andi. ‘He did a mystery and mind-reading act, I think. Reckoned he could float!’

I remember the TV show we watched. I say, ‘Wasn’t it all just a trick?’

‘Eeh, I don’t know! Probably! But then he got into all of this dream carry-on, with that thing above his bed, and he gave up show business, and he ended up here, forgotten. And now … now … Oh, sorry, kids.’

Andi digs out a tissue from her sleeve and starts dabbing at her eyes. ‘He was a difficult old so-and-so sometimes, but his lonely heart was in the right place and I’m sad he’s gone.’

Almost instinctively, I think, Susan goes over to Andi and sits next to her. She doesn’t hug her or anything: she just sits. Andi swallows and smiles bravely.

‘May I use the bathroom?’ I say. I’m now acutely aware that the minutes are ticking by until Dad will be home. It’s also not impossible that Fit Billy has been upstairs to check on me and seen that I’m not there.

‘Yes, of course. Out in the hall on the left.’ Andi doesn’t turn round as I leave.

I don’t bother with the bathroom, but instead make straight for the room where Kenneth slept. The door is shut and the handle is stiff to turn. There’s a loud click when I open the door and I look round, startled, in case Andi comes, but she doesn’t. I’m guessing that Susan will have engaged her in a grown-up conversation to distract her; she’s good like that, is Susan.

The room is neat. There are still clothes laid out on a chair. But there is only one thing I have come for. I look up at the ceiling above Kenneth’s bed.

It isn’t there.

How can that be? Why isn’t it there? Who’s got it?

I step further into the room. Perhaps it has dropped down on the other side of the bed? I find myself tiptoeing, even though I don’t need to because of the thick carpet. It’s nowhere to be seen, and I’m considering pulling open the drawer of a chest when Andi says, ‘This is the second time, Malky!’ I swing round with a gasp. ‘Just what on earth are you up to?’

‘No … nothing,’ I say, stupidly. The look on Andi’s face shows she doesn’t believe me.