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 mother.
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 world.
‘William,’ she says. ‘He’s picking up another rotten one.’


Bad Apple: a conspiracy theory, sure: but who were the conspirators?