As I do every morning, I squeeze my eyes closed and picture Aunty Kaye’s face. Some days the image comes easily, sometimes so slow I panic that I’ve lost it. Today she appears with the clarity of a photograph almost immediately. My breathing steadies. Calm descends.

I begin my imaginary appeal to her; run through my reasons, one by one, as if we’re just chatting over iced lattes at that jazz bar overlooking the marina – the one we hung out at last summer. I explain to her why this is the best solution. The only solution. She isn’t fazed at all; her expression shows no judgement or shock. She just listens; she just understands. She always understood. I imagine her voice, still clear despite the time that’s passed. It’s the voice of birthdays, of Christmas Eve, the voice of the best memories.

‘Well then, you have no choice,’ she says, nodding, aware of just how huge the consequences will be.

Smearing my soles dry across the carpet, I stand and draw the faded floral curtains apart. A late May dawn has begun its rise over the slate roofs and chimneys that stagger down the hill from our house. The only hint of a woken world is the distant rush of a London-bound train. All the work vans are still parked in the shade. The place looks peaceful. You might even think it pretty in a rugged kind of way – pretty for the sort of estate people are born in and never leave.

For a moment, I can ignore thoughts of my fellow members of Class 11C, dotted about the town, enjoying the sleep they’ve long deprived me of. Instead, I think of Sophia.

Something close to a smile forms. She’s due at work in an hour; she’ll be leaving home soon. Is she as nervous as I am? It’s hard to imagine. Does she even believe that I’m going to go through with it? She’ll have her doubts, I’m sure of that. My stomach burns as I imagine our plans for tonight – for when this is over. For the first time today, I am certain.

This is happening.

5.11 a.m.

I’m halfway down the stairs when I see it. I stop dead. This is what I have to put up with.

Clinging to the banister holding my breath, I cock an ear up towards the landing. I listen for confirmation that Gramps is still asleep. There’s a lengthy silence, then a desperate gasp for oxygen as his snore resumes its rattle. Relief – chronic back pain from a lifetime of laying lawns and patios makes him prone to unpredictable early risings. The thought of him stumbling on this doesn’t bear thinking about.