Then there’s the part about the terror attacks. All of them seem to be there; every single one documented. There’s the first one, the first act of war they call it, with the planes and the Twin Towers that happened before I was born, then a few more before 7/7, which is also a kind of hazy memory for me. I can’t have been much older than three or four maybe. Then they are listed, hyperlinked; the streak of smaller-scale machete and knife rampages, the cars driven into groups of pedestrians. And, finally, the one that killed Dad. The hyperlink is the same blue as all the others. I don’t know why but I feel somehow like it should be different. I click it. And there are the pictures – ones I’ve seen a hundred times on the news – pictures of police and ambulance crews, of scores and scores of injured and walking wounded. Some close-ups, some taken from a distance, some of piles of rubble, of angry orange explosions, or twisted and blackened metal.

But there are other pictures too – ones I haven’t seen before – of the smoke still rising from burnt-out train carriages, of bloodied arms or legs sticking out from the rubble, twisted and unnatural like branches caught in a flood. Pictures of ambulance crews zipping up body bags around the remains of what used to be people. I spend a few minutes clicking through them numbly before I realise what I’m hunting for. None of the pictures are of Dad. But there’s one that I stare at for I don’t know how long – it’s a picture taken from one end of an exploded tube train, the roof ripped off and the strip lighting from the tunnel shining into what’s left of the carriage. Along the length of it, amongst all of the buckled seats and ripped fabric, there are bodies. In the blood that spatters the foreground, there are footprints. The caption reads epicentre of the blast.

I look at it for a long time, not really seeing it. For some reason I can’t focus on any of the details, even though I want to strain my eyes over every distended limb or part of a face, looking for Dad.

I try to return to the video page, but it’s blocked. A message on the website says site under construction. I go back to the email, click the link, and once again the dozen thumbnail images appear on my screen. I want to see again that look in Carl’s eyes – the look that says there’s something you can do about this to feel better.

I click one of the thumbnails.