His study was quiet and cool. The desk was empty apart from his typewriter. A piece of paper was turned into its roller. I imagined him writing when I called him. Standing up to answer the phone mid-word. Grabbing his keys and coming straight out to help me.

I walked over to the French doors that looked over the swimming pool, the sea and the horizon in the distance. The lock turned easily. I swung the doors wide open and breathed the air in. I saw us then, me and my father, the ghosts of us sitting up on the cliff beside the rock, half-shielded in the grasses. We shared the binoculars. Our bodies pressed against each other. As I watched he stood. Strode back down towards the path. I saw myself, ten years old, skipping after him with my hair floating out behind me like the tail of a chestnut pony. He opened the gate and the hinges creaked.

Are we allowed?

Nobody’s home.

Are you sure?

We walked up the lawn towards the pool, which shone like a sheet of polished ebony. He stopped and grinned. Took off his soft grey T-shirt.

What are you doing?

You mean what are we doing? We, my lovely, are going for a swim.

But we’ll get put in prison.

There’s nobody here. Just you and me. Nobody will know.

I smiled as I recalled him dive-bombing into the pool. Water splashing up around him like an enormous flower. He emerged and stroked his hair off his face. Beaming widely. He beckoned to me.

Come on then! It’s perfect.

The terrace rang with the sound of us playing like two seals in the ocean. Afterwards we lay on the paving stones to dry off. We held hands. Watched the sky darkening as the weather closed in.

A few hours later he’d be dead.