That isn’t a question I am about to answer quickly, at least until I can think of a plausible lie, and there isn’t any thinking room in my head right now. It seems like the available space is taken up with the new knowledge that this skinny brown kid in the satin bomber jacket is my own father. The man who kissed me goodnight, who told me stories about when he was growing up (although none of them ever included a half-dead cat) and I’m just standing there like a half-wit looking him up and down for I’ve no idea how long until he says it again.

“How do you know my name?”

With a real effort of will I force myself out of my daze. Instead of answering his question, I create a diversion by saying, “Hang on. Is that them coming back?” I look up the bank at a family walking along the top. It’s pretty weak, but it works. Pye ducks down and looks up cautiously.

“No. Not them. So, how …”

“Come on, what are we going to do with this poor cat?” We look at it for a bit. I can see it breathing, because its tortoise-shell fur is moving up and down, but I can also hear that it is gasping a bit, and there is blood gathering in the bottom of the box.

I have not given away my mobile phone to a psychopath just to watch a cat die in front of me.

“Mr Frasier,” says Pye. “He’s a vet.” With that, he bends down and picks up the box. “Come on, then.”

I had not known that Mr Frasier used to be a vet. In my time he’s old and retired.

As Pye trudges through the dry sand ahead of me, carrying the heavy box, I’m free to stare at him. He makes little noises as he breathes out through his nose, tiny little grunts of air with each exertion. It’s not something I remember my dad doing, yet the sound is oddly familiar. Step, pphhth, step, pphhth, and I’m following, watching and listening, and then I know why it’s familiar: it’s because I do it myself. Hearing him sounding so much like me, even when he’s just breathing, starts to freak me out a bit, so I say, “Give me the box,” and I catch up with him and take it off him.

“What’s your name?”

“Al.”

“Al? Al what?”

I have thought about this.

“Singh.”

“Oh. OK. Hi.”

Singh is a pretty neutral surname. You can’t tell anything about a person from the name Singh, not really. It was given as a surname to people ages ago by a Hindu guru who wanted all his followers to treat each other equally and not be snobby because of their names, so people of all types can be called Singh. Choudhury, though – that’s a bit posh in India. Not always, but sometimes. I just wanted something ordinary.

“Where are your parents from?” he says. I’ve thought about that too.

“My mum and dad were born here. My grandparents have gone back to live in Punjab.”

“Speak any Punjabi?” It was funny listening to Pye. He pronounces ‘Punjabi’ in a really Indian accent, like ‘p’njabby’.

“Nope. Well, ‘sat siri akal’ is ‘hello’. That’s about it.”

“So how did you know my name?”

“Hang on. I want to know why you nearly killed this cat.”

I’m scared of what the answer may be, but I have to ask it for my own peace of mind. I do not want to think that my own dad would do that sort of thing willingly, so I’m hoping he’s going to give a good answer.

Pye chews his bottom lip in a gesture that I know well from Dad, and mumbles, “I didn’t. Macca shot it.”

“Are you sick in the head or something? You were about to set it on fire. You had lighter fluid! What d’you want to go and do that for?”

“Like I said, they made me.”

“Oh yeah, who made you?”

“My friends.”

“Your friends?” We are now at the top of the slipway down to the beach, and about to cross the seafront road. “What sort of person hangs out with people who torture animals?” This comes out much harsher than I intended, and Pye glares at me. I know I’ve touched a nerve, but I also know I’ve gone too far. His chin is trembling and he looks back at the beach.

“You know what? This is none of your business. It’s got nowt to do with you. You can just … just, piss off!” And with that he puts the box down, turns and starts running back down the slipway to the beach.

“Wait! Hang On! Wait!”

But he’s still running, and I’m running after him. Only when he reaches the soft sand does he slow down and turn around to look back at me, by which time I’m quite near to him and I shout again, but he turns to run. I’m desperate now, cursing my big mouth, but all I can do is to try a spurt of speed through the dragging, soft sand until I’m close enough to launch myself at him in what is definitely the only successful rugby tackle I have ever made: arms round his thighs and down we both go with a thud. I’m on top of him now, and he’s struggling and wriggling at the same time as cringing away from me and shouting, “Get off me. Gerroff! I’ll get Macca on yuh,” and he’s shouting so much that he can’t even hear me saying, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, all right? I’m sorry!”

I just keep repeating this, and his arms are pinned to the sand by my hands, and my head comes over, level to his. I look hard into his brown eyes and say again, “I’m sorry.”

He can tell I’m not going to hit him. He stops wriggling, I climb off his chest and we sit side by side on the sand for a while, panting. Eventually Pye says, “Macca’s not so bad. He used to pick on me loads, but he doesn’t now, and I prefer it like that, OK?” I can see Pye’s eyes are starting to moisten, and I figure that there’s more going on here than I can see. “I like him. And the others, all right?” I’m not convinced, but I’m thrown off-guard when he says, with a harder edge to his voice, “Now tell me how you know my name.”