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Chapters (90)
  1. Cover
  2. By the same author
  3. SUZY SUZY
  4. Copyright
  5. Contents
  6. Glossary of Dialect Terms
  7. 1
  8. 2
  9. 3
  10. 4
  11. 5
  12. 6
  13. 7
  14. 8
  15. 9
  16. 10
  17. 11
  18. 12
  19. 13
  20. 14
  21. 15
  22. 16
  23. 17
  24. 18
  25. 19
  26. 20
  27. 21
  28. 22
  29. 23
  30. 24
  31. 25
  32. 26
  33. 27
  34. 28
  35. 29
  36. 30
  37. 31
  38. 32
  39. 33
  40. 34
  41. 35
  42. 36
  43. 37
  44. 38
  45. 39
  46. 40
  47. 41
  48. 42
  49. 43
  50. 44
  51. 45
  52. 46
  53. 47
  54. 48
  55. 49
  56. 50
  57. 51
  58. 52
  59. 53
  60. 54
  61. 55
  62. 56
  63. 57
  64. 58
  65. 59
  66. 60
  67. 61
  68. 62
  69. 63
  70. 64
  71. 65
  72. 66
  73. 67
  74. 68
  75. 69
  76. 70
  77. 71
  78. 72
  79. 73
  80. 74
  81. 75
  82. 76
  83. 77
  84. 78
  85. 79
  86. 80
  87. 81
  88. 82
  89. About William Wall
  90. An Invitation from the Publisher

The only house my dad didn’t let was Clarinda Park. After the funeral we had to clear it out and there was a locked cupboard. I was scared. My mam got a hammer and chisel and chiselled out the lock. She was good at it. Who would have guessed. It was a Saturday and the air was grey with water, not rain, just some sort of wet airy stuff that made it hard to breathe. The cupboard was full of clothes. I recognised the ratty old cardigan he used to wear before Mam bought him a V-neck cashmere sweater, which he then wore like forever. It looked like everything old ended up here. Even a pair of golf shoes. Mam looked at me. I think the look said: What am I going to do now? Or maybe it was: Did we ask for this? Idk I can’t read other people. I’m so wrong so often. It’s hard enough to know what to do with dead people’s clothes, but what are you supposed to do with dead people’s dead clothes that they kept from a previous life? I could smell my dad. It was an all closed-up smell, Dad’s old clothes mixed with IKEA-wardrobe-smell and stale-golf-club-grass and sadness. It was old people sad. It was the worst kind.

I cried.

My mam got some plastic bin bags and we started to put the things into it. At the very back behind everything there was an envelope with an iPhone in it. It was powered down. We turned it on but it was password protected and it wasn’t Dad’s usual. Then at the very bottom, stuffed into a sock, was a pair of panties. My mam asked me if it was mine. It was too small for her, she said. Like how would I know? I have a million panties. And basically panties are panties. There’s only like ten different kinds. But why would my dad have a pair of my panties in an old sock?

My mam told me to go downstairs and put the kettle on. I knew what she was doing. She was worried. She wanted to empty the rest of the place on her own. So I made the tea and brought her up a mug and she was sitting on the bed trying passwords on the iPhone and crying. I sat down beside her and hugged her.

Mam, I said, he always had two phones.

I know, she said, but they’re both at home in his desk.

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