“He liked it, that’s all,” Harry said through his tears. “It was practical.”

That bike and it’s basket had been one of Adrian’s most prized possessions. From the day he ripped it out of the Christmas wrapping and box he had whizzing up and down the neighbour laughing with glee. He’d taken to it like duck to water, as they say, and had progressed to riding through the woods while the light still gave him sight.

“I’m afraid you’ve lost all function in your legs.”

Those words from the Doctor with the stern but strangely comforting eyes had made Harry want to die. How would he ever be the same? From running and cycling every day with Adrian to being wheelchair bound the rest of his life. He wasn’t sure he could continue.

But he did, and all because of Adrian. As father was to son, now son was to father.

Adrian bought that basket simply to bring home the groceries because Harry couldn’t make it to the shops. But that wasn’t all it brought home.

“Are you okay, son?” Harry had said on more than one occasion. And every time the answer was the same.

“Yes.” But the downbeat expression, the downcast eyes, they told a different answer.

Harry had identified the body, had taken the bike home, had spoken to so many parents that offered their condolences and so sorrys.

And now here he was. In an old smelling courtroom, four kids, because that’s all they really where, in front of him, telling the story of his boy to the judge and jury.

“It helped him, what with me being as I am. It was nothing to be ashamed of, to be ridiculed and mocked for. It was just a basket and he was my boy.”