My friend had this kid who had the number one dangling over his head like an exclamation mark. Like a warning. I didn't tell me friend about this for years. What do you say to someone whose kid has a one? Hey, you know your only child who you love dearly? Well, hate to be the bearer of bad news but he murdered someone. Nope, can't tell you who, just that he did. Well, cheers, let's get another round.

I'm not very smart but I'm smart enough to not say something so dumb as that.

He was a twitchy kid, pale, tall, spent too long indoors if you ask me. Had no friends. He was eleven when I first met him, when he came to the bar with his dad 'cause there was no one at home to look after him. Youngest kid I'd ever seen with a one hanging over them. It looked like a rope heading down to his neck, ready to curl around it.

I can't say I was ever nice to the boy. Why should I be? I was cruel instead, at least when I could get away with it. If I saw him running home from school in a storm, I'd drive straight past. Why would I give a murderer a lift, or shelter from the rain? It felt like he deserved my petty cruelties.

I tell you this because it seems somehow relevant. See, last night at dinner I see that same rope-like one hanging above my son's head. Above my own kid's head!

My kid is five. He was only over with me for the weekend and hadn't even out the house during the day so how the hell could he have a one above his head?

I questioned him. I'm not proud to say this but I questioned him until he cried and then until I cried. The numbers are never wrong -- everyone I've looked into, that I've been able to track down, has led to an old murder. You got a number over your head, you've killed another human.

I love my son. So what the hell had he done?

"You can tell me," I said, at the same time knowing how dumb it was to speak to a five year old like this. He couldn't have killed anyone. Right?

And yet he must have.

​

I told my friend about his son in the end -- or at least, I made my friend confess. His kid was sixteen then. Me and my friend were hitting it hard in an old English pub that sold ale fit for melting your heart. I wasn't in a good place at the time -- my wife had taken the kid and left recently. Her leaving was on me but what could I do apart from drink and feel sorry for myself? It felt like my only option. I still loved her and I loved my kid, I just hated myself.

My friend, on the other hand, was going toe-to-toe with me just because I needed a friend. He was a single father, like me, but he'd been in the situation for years longer. He was used to it, I guess. And he understood my pain.

The ale soon dissolved my inhibitions and I got to thinking about his kid. About the number hanging over the boy's head and how it came to be.

"What if your child turned out to be a murderer?" I said, as nonchalant as I was capable of being.

"What?" he said.

"Hypothetically I mean. If your kid murdered someone -- another kid, maybe, or anyone really -- would you stick by them? I'm not sure I'd defend my child if that happened."

He looked at me but said nothing, then got up and went to the bar to fetch another round.

A while later the thought crosses my mind again and I push the conversation where I really shouldn't. "Say," I say, "you didn't answer earlier. If your kid was responsible for a death, what you would do?"

And then he tells me everything. It pours out like the ale.

When his boy had been born there had been complications. Sometimes these complications take years to manifest, but sometimes, cruelly, they're quicker than consciousness. His mother hadn't even seen him before she passed away.

My friend didn't blame him one bit. In his son, he saw his wife. He loved his son more than anything.

So I sat there saying nothing for a long time, sipping my ale but suddenly only tasting the sourness.

"I'm sorry," I said.

"You weren't to know."

​

​

It wasn't until after dinner, after me and my boy had been crying, until after I put him in his bed, that the conversation with my friend came back to mind.

I called my estranged wife. Just to check on her. I'd make some excuse, tell her our son was missing her.

I called and the phone rang.

She was okay. I was sure of it.

But a thought kept tapping at my skull. About how complications can take years to manifest.

The phone kept on ringing.