I said to my parents: ‘The question
is, why would the third building fall down?’
They sat in their garden chairs, looking up at me.
I said, ‘Okay. Two buildings were hit by planes. And
three fell down.’
' ‘I thought it was just two,’ said my mother.
‘No. Three. There was another building.’
‘Another building fell down.’
‘Yes! Exactly! That’s what I’m saying!’
My son, a toddler, approaches me, holding a rotten apple.
He puts it in his mouth.
‘And the thing is,’ I say, ‘the thing…’
‘He’ll get a bad tummy,’ says my mother.
I say, ‘Look, all three buildings fell in their own
footprints. That had not happened, in history, before this
day, without it being the result of explosives. And it has
not happened since.’
‘Don’t let him eat that apple,’ says my
My father sits in his garden chair, looking up at me. I am
aware that conspiracy theorists are supposed to look mad.
That I look mad.
My mother says, ‘Where was this talk?’
‘At the All Saints.’
‘So you think there might have been some kind of…conspiracy?’
I make a sneery face designed to convey that not agreeing
with me would be the act of somebody very stupid indeed.
It’s when she nods, taking it in, not desperate to rebut
me on the spot, that I realise something has changed in our
‘William,’ she says. ‘He’s picking
up another rotten one.’