There’s a funeral taking place at the crematorium. He imagines they rarely bury anyone here nowadays; perhaps his father was one of the last. Perhaps Jordan somehow pulled strings to get him in. He doesn’t remember that time well. He missed the funeral. He watches the mourners emerge from the building, an older woman dressed in black surrounded by friends and family. The way she leans on the arm of the young man walking next to her makes him think the man is probably her son. Another father being buried then. They are a fair distance away, but he can see the sweat break out on their brows as they step into the blazing heat. The crowd that spills out behind them begins to pay its respects while everyone waits for whatever comes next: a taxi to the house or a local pub, sandwiches and tea, stiff drinks and reminiscence. Soon the enforced quiet that has been laid on them lifts and evolves into gentle chatter as their cars begin to arrive. The son helps the mother into the back of a silver Mercedes and they are gone. Life goes on.

Tyler looks down at his father’s gravestone. This is where they all end up; the girls butchered in their apartments, the football crowds and the Friday night drinkers of O’Hagan’s. Gerald Cartwright. Oscar Cartwright. Adam Tyler. They all end up here, tidied away in their boxes, vases, and urns. Cramped together, as though still searching for the same human contact.

He thinks back to that day. He’s coming home from school and he’s happy. Perhaps for the last time. His mother is long gone and Jude is mostly away in the army, but he and Richard are doing okay. He has plans. A-levels next year, and then university to read mathematics or physics. After that, a job doing something important. He doesn’t know what exactly, just that it should count. The one thing he is sure of is that he’s not going to follow in his father’s footsteps and join the police. His tutor, Mr. Barton, tells him it’s too early to be making concrete plans, and he should try not to put so much pressure on himself. It’s a funny thing for a teacher to say, and he remembers it in the months to come. Wonders if perhaps Mr. Barton had a premonition and knew what was waiting for Tyler at home that day.

He remembers things differently from the way they must have been. For instance, in his memory, he sees his father through the frosted glass in the front door before he actually goes in. A silhouette, a shadow. An unfinished Tarot card—the Hanged Man. He knows this can’t be real; otherwise why would he have closed the door behind him and flicked down the latch? Why would he kick off his trainers and drop his school bag just as he always did? Why would he have opened the fucking door in the first place? But this is the way he remembers it.