He’s serious. My father doesn’t know that he is my father. He’s not faking it. He hasn’t got a clue who I am. Hope surges in me. I try to focus my pain addled brain; how can I turn this to my advantage?

‘He’s a trouble-maker. Resistance,’ Radcliffe says, nonchalantly.

Which doesn’t make any sense. Radcliffe knows exactly who I am. Why is he hiding it from The Leader? What the hell is going on here?

The Leader scowls. ‘What’s he doing in your goddamn office, man? You should have let Lewis question him like the rest of them.’

‘I didn’t know you were here,’ Radcliffe says. He seems a little annoyed himself.

They lock eyes for a moment. The Leader turns away. ‘Get rid of him,’ he says. ‘Now.’ He reaches for the door.

Once he walks out, I’m a dead man.

‘Wait!’ I say. I don’t know what makes me open my mouth. Desperation claws up my throat and once again I blurt out the only hope of leverage I have. ‘I’m your son.’

The Leader turns back to the aide. ‘What the hell is this, Radcliffe?’

‘He’s just trying to save his skin,’ Radcliffe says.

‘I am your son. He knows it—’

‘Take him away,’ Radcliffe says to the guard.

‘Hold on,’ The Leader says, staring at me hard.

‘He’s lying,’ I say. ‘He knows I’m your son.’

The Leader gives his aide an appraising look. I get the impression that this is not the first time Radcliffe has lied.

‘It’s true,’ I say, trying to take advantage of his apparent indecision.

The Leader sighs.

‘We’ve had kids turn up here before claiming to be The Leader’s child,’ Radcliffe says to me.

I shake my head. ‘I’m not claiming to be his son. I am his son.’ It’s not as if I’m proud of the fact.

‘What makes you so sure?’ The Leader asks.

‘My mother told me.’

‘What’s your mother’s name?’

‘Sir—’ Radcliffe gets to his feet, but The Leader holds up a hand to stop him speaking.

‘Anne Jackson.’

The Leader’s eyes widen.

Radcliffe steps in between us. ‘You haven’t proved anything.’

‘I don’t want to prove anything. Just let me go and I’ll forget all about this.’

The Leader lowers himself into Radcliffe’s vacated chair.

I’m so close to him . . . If only I had a gun now.

‘When were you born?’ he asks.

I tell him my date of birth and his eyes swivel up to the right as he makes mental calculations. He gives a slight nod. Then he fires more questions at me: my mother’s job at the time, the colour of her hair, where they met. I find myself answering because I realise that I do want to prove something: that my mother is not a liar. But why does he need convincing? I thought he knew. I was sure he knew; after all, he tried to have me killed. Didn’t he? But as he sits there questioning and nodding his head and staring at me, to try to find a resemblance between us, I really believe that this is the first time he’s heard of my existence.

Which leaves me with the question that this whole thing started with: who wants me dead?