It’s a massive shock, my dad’s body turning up, and I react the only way I know how, the same way I’ve always done – I put on a fixed smile and carry on. Though I do go back to cutting myself when I can manage a moment alone, even though I had pretty much weaned myself off the habit. It gives me a momentary release from the horror and awfulness of what is going on around me, and from the memories of my childhood. No one notices – it is easy to hide the scars when you’re as used to it as I am.

I never got to meet my dad while he was alive, so I figured the least I could do would be to pay my respects now that he was dead. I would like to see his body and spend some time with him. It’s a poor substitute but it feels important.

It’s very difficult to get time to myself but as soon as I manage a free couple of hours I head down the mountain to the hospital to see if I can see my dad. My French is far from brilliant but, even so, I’m sure the woman understands that I’m saying I am the dead man’s daughter. But she says that without my passport and various other bits of paper and ID there’s no way I can see his body. Which is ridiculous – do they have random people turning up the whole time to try to look at dead bodies which are nothing to do with them? As far as I can understand, she then says something about his brother, who will be coming out in the next few days. Perhaps I should speak to my uncle if I want to see the body, she tells me.