“No, dad, I-“ I tried to say, but couldn’t finish my sentence.

“No. You’re stuck in a rut of doing the same thing literally every day, and it’s leading you nowhere. That has to change,” he said.

“Funny of you to say that,” I said.

“Yes, every day of mine looks the same, but I don’t care. I’ve achieved what I want in life. I have a lovely daughter, my wife is happy, and I’m set for retirement. No worries in the world,” he said, “as long as you’re happy. And you’re not picking your phone up, so you’re unhappy.”

“I might just be working hard,” I said.

“I’ve known you 26 years, Jordan. You’re not one to overwork yourself,” he said. And then it hit me. The wave of sadness. The truth in his words. I’m ashamed that I had to look into him to find that out, but he was right.

“I suppose,” I said.

“I came all the way down to help you, and I’ll drag you out of the place if I have to,” he said. “Football? I know a friendly bar not far from here.”

“Are you sure?” I said. “Because of what happened last time.” I wasn’t about to have another panic attack, especially not in public.

“Yes, I’m sure. Easy opposition tonight,” he said. “Should be nothing but happiness.”

“Alright then. Let me just clean up a bit,” I said. “Make yourself at home.”

“My home’s not a mess, but I’ll try,” he said. Never one to miss a sly remark.

I got in the shower and took my sweet time doing it, thinking about what had just happened. He’d come all the way down to see me, which was wonderful. And, in my conscious brain, I knew he was right. I just felt… defeated. Wronged. As if my search for Aaron was coming to an end right here and right now, and that he was there to stop it.

He knocked on the bathroom door. “You alright?”

“In a minute!” I shouted.

“Come on, we’re gonna be late for the game,” he said. There were more important things than me taking my sweet time to process everything.

Having got out of the shower, I got myself into a presentable state and, having found a red tee, went for a walk with my father for the first time in almost a decade.

“So who is this Aaron lad?” he asked. “Made any progress?”

“No,” I said. “Every place I look is a dead end. I can’t even track all the money I’ve spent getting into restricted records. No file scans, nothing. I can’t find him. I’m still on the phonebook level.”

“Have you tried brute-forcing it, then?” he said. “Might not be the worst idea.”

“There’s a hundred thousand Aarons. Thousands that have had a procedure done to them,” I said. “No way in hell I can brute-force that, the Police would be on my back sooner than I’d find him. Everyone’s seen the Terminator, dad.”

“Hmm, you’re right,” he said. “Here’s the thing. You can’t go on this way. I know you want to find him, but you have to do something. Otherwise you’ll do this forever, and you have a life to live.”

“What do you suggest I do, then?” I said.

“I don’t know,” he said.

The rest of the walk passed in silence, and probably for the better, as the conversation had come to a dead end, much like my search for Aaron. Arriving at the pub, we found a table to share, and had an amazing time, sharing banter with like-minded fans, celebrating the game and generally taking our minds off life. But the game had to end, and life had to come back.

Once the game was over, and the most loyal of the fans retreated into their own little circles to discuss the minutiae, we could talk freely, and he spoke first. “Do you even know he’s real?”

“Why are we talking about this again? I’ve told you, I haven’t made any progress, what I told you back in October is what I know now,” I said.

“No need to defend. Just thinking logically,” he said.

“Oh. I’m sorry,” I said.

He didn’t seem to take notice of my apology. “If he isn’t real, there is no point thinking about him, other than having strange dreams about him, or write about him. Am I right?”

“Yes.”

“If he is real, is there any plausible way you could find him, other than brute force?”

“Well, I could find hospital records and reduce it that way.”

“You’ve tried it. Where has it led you?”

“Nowhere.”

“Love, I know this is going to sound difficult. But please use what conscious mind you have left, because I know you’re clever enough to give the correct answer to this. Is there any reason to keep looking for him?”

I put my head in my hands, and took a long while before responding with the answer that, deep down, I knew was right. “No.”

I couldn’t control myself anymore. Six months of my life I’d wasted. Chasing a ghost. All of it was for nothing, and he was right. I should’ve taken my head off him as soon as there were other things to do, and focus on why the hell I was hearing emotions. But no, I had to go and find this one specific man that I might’ve dreamed up. All I had left were tears.

I had told myself that I wouldn’t have a panic attack in the middle of a pub. But I told nothing of emotional breakdowns. Holding my head, I started sobbing, my thoughts racing through the conscious mind as well as the unconscious, my entire world falling apart at my feet. Having noticed it, Dad got up from his chair and gave me an uncharacteristic hug. “It’s not all gone, love.”

“It is,” I whimpered. “He’s gone. My time is gone.”

“Breathe,” he said.

Feeling just that tiny bit safer in his arms, I managed to calm myself down, drawing deep breaths and trying to distract myself one way or the other. The few beers I’d had were certainly helping, and I was back on my feet a minute later. “I’d like to go to sleep,” I said.

“Come on, then,” he said. “I have a hotel in London. I’ll be at yours in the morning, and I’ll help you clean it up. That’s the first thing you need right now.”

“What about mum? What’s she going to do?”

“She stayed up North. She wants you back as much as I do, but she’s decided to stay up and let me handle the issue alone.”

“How on Earth did you manage to convince her to do that?”

“I have no fucking idea,” he said as he finished his beer and led me outside, into the warm April evening.