‘Listen, you really shouldn’t be in a gun shed like this on your own. No one should be messing around with guns unless they’ve had proper, safe instruction.’

‘You think because I’m vegan I haven’t handled a gun before? My mother has rifles.’

Michael laughs. ‘Silly me. Lorna’s armed to the teeth, no doubt. For the great war that’s never coming.’

‘Something like that. They’re hunting rifles, but … yeah. She doesn’t hunt anything.’ My hand wanders absentmindedly to the smiley face badge on my jacket, feeling to make sure it’s the right way up. Fashion is all about getting the right look at all times, after all.

‘What’s that?’ Michael notices my badge. ‘The old acid house smiley face. That’s a pretty big badge, isn’t it? I’ve never seen a button that big. Is that the fashion among you kids today? I hope you’re not into that whole scene. Drugs and all that.’

‘It’s just an emoji. A smiley face. Looking out on everything. A view on the world. You know?’

Michael nods, but I can tell he doesn’t really get it. He’s not supposed to – he’s old.

‘Listen,’ Michael says. ‘I was wondering if you wanted to see my little music studio today. Before you leave.’

‘What I really want to do is talk,’ I say. ‘Really talk. About my mother and all the things she hasn’t told me.’

‘Yes, Liberty. A talk is long overdue. But promise me one thing. If you don’t get to see the studio today, you’ll bring your band up here sometime.’

I nod and nod. ‘I’d love to. They’d love to. We’d all love to. Thanks.’ I hesitate. ‘Dad.’

Michael gives me a gentle smile. ‘Come on, daughter of mine, let’s go have breakfast. And I’ll start making my peace with you going back to Lorna today, if that’s what you want. God, it’s going to be tough. Like losing you all over again.’

‘I’ll come back,’ I say. ‘And if Mum won’t let me … well, I’m sixteen years old. I’m allowed to leave home. It’s sad. All these years we’ve missed. We’ve got a lot of catching up to do.’

‘That we do, Liberty. That we do.’

Lorna

Cat Cannon opens her front door in a black Chanel dress, cigarette held between red fingernails. She stares at me like I’m a ghost.

The door opening only happened after a lengthy intercom interrogation, during which Cat accused me of being an investigative journalist and made me answer questions that she herself couldn’t remember the answers to.

‘It’s 8 a.m. and you’re all dressed in Chanel with your hair and nails done,’ I say. ‘Am I in a parallel universe?’