Then I minded a story about my father, about how, when we were kids, he had literally disappeared. My father had been quite religious when we were growing up. We went to chapel every Sunday. We had a copy of The Bible on the table between our beds at night, just in case youse need it, my da says to me and my brother Peter, which of course put the living fear in us that during the night we were going to be assaulted by daemons or by the kind of crooked thoughts that only The Bible can destroy.

Then he disappeared. And when he came back he was wearing stigmata. That’s what he says to us.

He turns up and his face is all cut-up and bruised, so badly bruised that he was scarcely recognisable. Me and my brother were scared as hell, pushing him away. No, don’t touch me, we’re screaming, Ma, we’re saying, he’s a monster, and my da, he says to me, I had to go away. I had obligations, he says to me. You had obligations to your family, our ma is screaming at him, you’re scaring the fucking life out of them, she’s screaming, you’ve got them all scared like little white rabbits. One day it will be your turn, he says to us, and then he says to us, don’t you remember when Jayzus lifted his hand from the cross to show the disciples his wounds?