Read the following poem and answer the questions that follows:

Are You There?

My father and I shove back the furniture

to the four walls of the sitting room

then lie on the carpet wearing blindfolds,

his left hand holding my left hand.

Are you there, Moriarty? he enquires,

before tightening (I imagine) the grip

on his rolled-up copy of yesterday's Times.

There is only one possible answer to that.

I give it while rolling away to the side

but still clasping his hand, still in range,

and sure enough he manages a direct hit.

Now it is my turn, but the moment I lift

my weapon I realise there is no reason

to continue. I can tell from his stillness,

and the chill and stiffness of his fingers,

he has been dead for a good while already.

Andrew Motion