At breakfast, Tom was fidgety and silent, picking at his food like a bored chicken.

Christ, what was it with the chicken always!

Daisy was trying to engage him in conversation, but Tom never caught up and instead looked paler and paler. Hardy could emphasize. Eating with that kind of stress hanging over the day was a monumental issue, not just killing appetite but making the food taste like ash and dust and the process of chewing plain disgusting.

He knew from experience and pulled out his phone to text Miller so she would bring some food for the drive back.

See? He could behave responsibly!

Last night, when he'd come back and the two teenagers had tumbled in, Tom had already been looking a bit peaky but the movie and popcorn and maybe the proximity to a pretty girl had let him hang on. Today, not even Daisy's deliberate brightness was getting through.

Hardy, despite wanting nothing but his bed, had taken her aside, first to tell her to call Tess and then to explain why their father-daughter-time would be cut short tomorrow.

's okay, Dad. If I were in that situation, I'd want to talk to you, too. Not hearing the truth from you – well, or Mom, you know what I mean, anyone of you – means that there's still hope that everyone's wrong, you know? I mean… When … when I found out about Mom and Dave… I thought maybe it wasn't true. Maybe I'd made a mistake. Maybe… she wouldn't do that, right? That's what I thought. And I didn't want to know if I was right, for a long time because it would mean I was wrong to…' she'd sniffed and leaned against him and he'd hugged her softly which she turned into a full-body squeeze. 'I'm so sorry for never calling you back when you were first away. I was so angry at you, for leaving us. I… I didn't know everything and I'm still bloody mad at you both for letting me think that! But … anyway, when I outright asked her and she said yes… there's really nobody else I would've believed, you know?'

They'd sat outside the hotel-room in the tacky chairs supplied for whatever purpose hotels put chairs on their levels for and said nothing for a while. Then, 'Do you think his father will tell the truth?'

And that was the kicker, wasn't it? The purpose of this was to get an end for that chapter in Tom's life. Some kind of… closure, maybe, or at least a chance to get that, sometime in the future. But it all hung on Joe, and that was a dodgy hook to hang everything on. Miller hadn't been wrong when she'd said it was a stupid idea. But she hadn't seen Tom at that rest-area, scouting for drivers who would take him to his father, determined to the last to find out what he needed to despite all the risks he was taking.

He supposed he understood. Not in the exact terms, as he'd have believed pretty much anything bad about his own father. But he'd had a hard time believing that the man who came home to his family to shout and yell and scream and throw stuff was the same man who held crying mothers and distraught fathers, had patched up prostitutes and let petty thieves run with a dire warning. Alan had never let Hardy get away with anything but perfect behaviour, so the truth had been very hard to believe.

So yes, he understood. 'I hope so, Daise. I really bloody well hope so.'

O

Daisy had agreed to stay away from Liverpool Shipping Port, but the only option for a nice morning by herself on a Sunday was the World Museum. Hardy wasn't sure it was exactly what she'd have chosen, but she'd seemed okay with it when he and Tom dropped her off at the entrance.

She'd hugged him and he'd clung to her a bit desperately, not wanting to let her go. Her support this weekend was immense, and he wasn't sure if she could grasp her importance to him quite correctly. 'Dad? People are staring, afraid to go inside. They think they'll not come out again, the way you're clinging to me here,' she'd joked and Hardy had chuckled and let her go.

With a heavy heart and a cloud of dread hanging over the car, Hardy and Tom made their way to the port.

Outside the gate, Tom suddenly put his hand up and asked to stop.

"Everything okay, Tom?"

"Yeah. Yeah. Just…" he chewed on his thumbnail, something he'd been doing since before the movie. "I mean… What if… what if…" But even after three more attempts of speaking, his voice stalled after the 'if'.

"Just… say what you want to say and go from there. Nothing else you can do. Sometimes, life throws shite at you and piles it up and up so high you think you'll drown, but all you can do is dig your way out again."

Tom wrinkled his nose, probably imagining himself neck-high in a big do of hog-shit.

"It stinks. But it's either that or sink. Sorry – not much for inspirational talk."

Still pale, Tom smiled and looked over. "Thank you, sir. For… you know. All this."

Aw, hell. Kid might even start to grow on him, this way. "'S fine," Hardy sniffed. "Hope you'll get what you came here for. C'm on, let's go." Awkwardly, he patted Tom's shoulder and they drove through the gate and into the port's property.

Right after taking the curve around the first buildings, Hardy spotted Joe's figure standing lonely near a few rusty-looking steel beams. Even from a distance, Joe looked nervous and a small, nasty part inside Hardy felt like saying 'Good!'. He didn't say anything, though, just parked the car and unbuckled, waiting for Tom's signal. If the boy wanted to run, he'd drive away without a second thought, no question asked.

With a deep sigh and looking pale as a sheet, Tom bit his lips and took off his seatbelt, then slowly opened the door. Hardy followed. "I'll be twenty feet away or less. You wanna leave, we'll leave. Just holler or wave a hand."

Tom nodded, then braced himself and zipped up his coat before taking the first step towards his father. After a few feet, Hardy followed, not taking his eyes off Joe Miller's face.

Unbidden, a tiny inkling of pity formed in the depth of his stomach. Joe's face looked just as pale as his son's and he imagined there were tears gathering in his red-rimmed eyes. Joe didn't say anything even though his mouth was moving, and as Tom drew nearer, a softness spread over his features that reminded Hardy once more of the moments of family-life he'd glimpsed during those weeks when nobody had even thought about suspecting Joe Miller of loving an eleven-year-old boy and murdering him in a fit of rage and desperate fear of being found out.

Why couldn't people just be plain black-and-white? Why did nasty and evil always mix with good and decent, muddled everything up and never leave one with a clear verdict inside their minds?

He'd felt sympathy for Ricky Gillespie and it had vanished all down the toilet when the case unravelled and it turned out that man was just as despicable a liar and pretender as Joe Miller had been. And yet his grief for his daughter had been all-too-real. Had he not tried to cover up Lisa's death and pretend to be the poor, wronged and distraught father to the press and the police and even his wife, there would still be sympathy left inside Hardy's stomach.

He felt desperate pity for Michael Lucas, the boy Leo fucking Humphries had groomed to his liking and his likeness, who had been caught between his own sense of right and wrong and his desperation to find a friend and a connection outside of his sad, sad home, ultimately deciding on the wrong side of that line. It still made him a rapist.

Nothing was easy. Humans were never just one thing. Philosophically, that might be good, but it sure made work that much harder and stomaching the outcome sometimes near impossible.

On the cracked concrete of the port, Tom had reached Joe and the two were standing face to face, taking in the other's features without knowing what to say. What could you say to your son you stole the best friend from, murdered that friend later and kicked their family to the dust? What to say to the man who did all that and who you wished nothing more from than to hold you and promise that everything would be alright again? 'Hello'? 'How've you been'? 'How's school'? 'Enjoying exile'?

In the end, Joe broke the stalemate. "Tom," he said with a wobble, and the wind took his voice and carried it over to Hardy's place those promised twenty feet away.

Well, he had said he wouldn't listen, but if the wind insisted, who was he to deny it?

"Dad," Tom answered and then they hugged. Hardy cringed and looked away for a bit, not wanting to watch that display of happy-family-moment. But they separated soon and with a quick glance at Hardy, Joe inclined his head towards the steel beams where he'd spread an insulated picnic-blanket and a thermos for the two of them to talk.

For a second, Hardy thought about checking the thermos for poison or drugs, but he wouldn't know anything about it anyway and he didn't really think Joe would be so stupid. Tom, though, surprised him by taking his own thermos out of his backpack and, smiling, filled his own cup with the steaming ingredient. Smart boy. Miller should be proud.

Settling for an uncomfortable hour or so, Hardy leaned against his car and tried to pretend he wasn't hearing every word the two exchanged.

"How are you, Tom? How… how's school? Your friends?"

"Good," Tom answered, then turned his head. "School's … school. Michael's in in prison. Mum arrested him for raping a woman a few months ago. Arrested that creeper Leo, too, for making him do it."

That stopped Joe cold and Hardy fought a gleeful smirk. Kid really knew how to stop awkward small-talk.

"Oh. Uh…"

"Dad… I really don't want to talk about home, you know? I… I just came here to tell you something. First, I wanted to … you know, know everything, but maybe… maybe that's not what I'm really here for. So I'm just… I'll just say what's important, 'kay? Can I?"

"Yes, yes. Of course, Tom. Please."

"So. Thing is… I want to believe that you didn't kill Danny. I want to… I want to remember you as my dad, not as … that man. Mom made me talk to that shrink, and he's okay and all but… I need to talk to you, tell you all that. So… 's just that I can't pretend nothing happened, that we're happy and you were never there. We moved back into home, you know, and everything there still reminds me. There's my bed and I see the hole where I tried out the power-drill and nearly killed myself, and it reminds me of you yelling at me and holding me and making me stop crying. I see Fred and I see your hand in his curls, making him breakfast. We painted the bedroom, Mom and I, and I see you at the window looking out and laughing over some idiot with a dog on the common. I hear your voice every night telling me Goodnight, or reading me a story and-" Tom's voice hitched and broke off every now and then. But he just angrily wiped his face and carried on. "And I see Mom and then I see you and her, in the kitchen, laughing about something. I see her smile sometimes and then she stops and turns away and gets all sad, but I see you next to her giving her a hug. And I want that back. I want all of that back, you know? I want you back and … and it hurts. It hurts so much to have all those blank spaces where you used to be, all of that … that feelings that belonged to you and I don't know where to put them. I love you, I don't want to be without my dad, but… Then I think about Beth and Mark, and how they want Danny back just as much, maybe more so. And… And I don't know what to feel anymore."

He was silent for a bit and to his credit, Joe didn't say anything. The cup in his hands, though, was shaking, Hardy saw. Tom dug in his pocket, pulled out a hanky and blew his nose.

His voice was deeper and slightly scratchy. "Thing is, I didn't believe them all. Not… not that they'd lied, you know? But… maybe there'd been a mistake. Maybe you… you were just saying you did it to protect someone? Don't know who that could be, but … well." He shrugged. "All the way here, I thought that there has to be a reason you said you did it and then said you didn't, that you really didn't… Now, though, sitting here… I'm not so sure if I really wanna know. Maybe not knowing is better. Maybe I was wrong to come here." He wiped his nose in his sleeve. "I don't want to feel bad about missing you."

And Joe Miller put his arms around his son and pulled him towards him, held him close and let the boy cling to him, let him sob into his jumper. His face was pale and worn, and then his head turned and he looked right at Hardy, showing his tear-stained cheeks and the deep, gut-wrenching sorrow in them.

At that point, Hardy knew things would be alright. Not for Tom, probably. Not for Miller. Not for Joe Miller and certainly not for the Latimers, ever. But this moment was the chance Joe couldn't have hoped for, his one last chance, and Hardy knew he would take it.

He didn't have to hear what Joe whispered into Tom's hair, or be able to read lips; the sudden tension in Tom's shoulders was enough for him to know what Joe'd said. Tom's grip loosened and eventually let go completely. It took a moment for his father to release him and his face was devastated.

"I…" Tom looked away.

"I love you. So much. Please believe me that I love you. Please. Please. Just… just that."

"Okay." Tom's voice was calm and slightly vacant. He moved away a little bit, creating distance that Hardy knew pained Joe to no end.

Good.

"Okay. I… I'll leave now. Than… thank you for telling me. Uhm."

"Can… can I call you, maybe?" Joe asked, reaching for Tom but stopping before he made contact. It didn't seem like he thought he'd get a positive answer.

He didn't.

"No. No, I don't think so. I… I can't not love you, Dad." Tom's voice faltered at 'Dad'. "I can't. But right now… right now I really wish I could. Maybe… maybe. One day, maybe. Don't know. Not now." He took a quick look at Joe again then looked away. "Don't contact me. Bye."

And with that he stood and left, not turning back even once. As he reached the car, Hardy opened the passenger-side and let him settle in, never turning his gaze away from Joe. But he was just sitting on the beam, a sorry, pathetic man who might finally understand what his cowardice had cost him.

Maybe one day, he'd also understand what it had cost all the other people in his life. But that would take a while still, Hardy thought.

Without a word, he slipped into the car and drove off, staying silent during the whole ride. He wasn't even pretending he hadn't heard every word. The only thing he did was hand Tom more tissues, which he gladly used to wipe his face and blow his nose.