Kieran sat down on the bedraggled sofa and leaned forwards, his elbows on his knees, as he considered Jude. A faint smile of fondness appeared on his face at the image of teenaged Jude, drinking wine at dinner, in a dining room that was worth more than anything on Kieran's childhood street. It vanished when he admitted, "I think I was twelve."

He swallowed. "I don't know if it's possible for me to stop."