The journalist. The fucking journalist knew! Clutching the cupboard and then the table, he found his way to a chair. He was fairly certain he stepped on some shards. His socks were certainly wet with hot tea. But he couldn't bother about that. Nor about getting soot from his clothes all over the chair. His life was over.

Bill was pale. He avoided looking at his son. How could he, after losing face? For twenty-five years the truth had been buried so deep that only dreams and John's encounters with the police had brought it into his conscious mind. It had never passed his lips. He had forbidden Lottie to ever mention it. "I was a wee lad then. Younger than Kate is now. I came out as a young man, and a different person. I just wanted to look forward and start over completely. I certainly didn't want to burden you children with the shame. I wanted ye to be able to respect me."