I suck in my breath, feeling both sick and excited. ‘I think it’s him, Skywalker. I think that’s my father.’

I’ve studied Michael Reyji Ray obsessively over the last few months. He is your typical old rock dude, puffy and partied with a weathered face and weight clinging to his waist. But he still dresses young, rocking tweedy Fedora hats over his bald patch, bleaching his hair and always wearing black Ray-Bans. This dressing-gown guy is wearing sunglasses, even in this leafy, shaded forest glade. That’s a rock-star move, and no mistake.

Now the man walks to a pile of tarpaulin, pointing, and I get a really clear view. His legs are darkly tanned and his black silk dressing gown billows open to reveal tight red Speedo shorts. Adidas sliders slip around his feet. He wears this casual ensemble like royal robes, strutting as he walks.

It is him. Michael Reyji Ray.

This man looks like me. I’ve seen the pictures. I have his face. Half of me came from him. If he’s as bad as my mum says, what does that make me? Half monster?

This is like staring at the cream-covered sponge cakes in our village bakery window. Knowing they’re full of cream and eggs, but wanting a slice all the same. Everyone at school eats animal products. Why do I have to be so moral? Everyone else has a father. Why can’t I have one?

‘Hey,’ I call out, rattling the gates. ‘Mr Ray. MICHAEL!’

A car horn blares behind me and Skywalker starts barking. I grab him. ‘Calm boy. Stay calm.’

I turn to see a black Porsche creeping towards the gate on growling tyres.

Skywalker watches the car with his brown ears pricked. There is a woman inside. She leans out of the driver’s window, face tight, lips softly pink and face snow-white. She’s attractive in a had-a-lot-of-work-done sort of way, with dark brown hair making a prominent widow’s peak on her pale forehead.

‘Get away from our gate with that big dog,’ she shouts.

Skywalker starts barking.

I pull his collar. ‘Shush, doggy.’

‘This is private property,’ the woman continues. ‘If you want to see my husband, buy a concert ticket.’

‘I’m not a fan,’ I say.

‘Then why are you here?’

‘Um … there’s a good reason.’

‘Yes, I have a good reason too,’ says the woman. ‘I live here. I’m Michael Reyji Ray’s wife. And I’m sick of girls thinking my husband is public property.’

‘You’re his wife?’

I’ve read about Diane McBrady – the woman Michael married before he met my mother. Her Wikipedia picture shows a dimple-cheeked, cute teenager in wellies and a knitted jumper, holding hands with Michael on an Irish moor. This woman … if she’s Diane, the baby face has long gone, replaced by angular lines and plucked-to-death eyebrows. Attractive but definitely not sweet.