‘Is that your dad?’

She nodded against his chest. ‘He was shot,’ she said, simply.

‘What?’ Tony raised his head a little to better see her, but she kept her head where it was. Pressed against his chest, her gaze directed away from his.

‘My daddy was shot,’ she said.

‘By who?’

She shrugged. He could feel the growing dampness of her cheeks against his skin, could hear the catch in her voice, her tone thickening with tears.

‘He was a solicitor. He represented a couple of people who were connected, so I think maybe he had a name for being one of them. Someone decided he was a legitimate target. We were watching TV. It was a Sunday evening; I remember because That’s Life was on. Every time it was on, dad would pretend he was that dog, you know, the one that said “Sausages”. “Rausages” he’d say, laughing to himself, like it was the first time he’d thought of it. He’d just done it, just said “Rausages”, and there was a banging on the door. He went out to answer it; sometimes people called late at night needing his help for some of their family that had been lifted or something, so it wasn’t anything odd. I followed him out to make a cup of tea. I was being nosey, to be honest, trying to see if I knew who’d been lifted this time. When he opened the door, there was a man standing wearing a motorbike helmet, with the visor down. Dad didn’t have time to do anything, not even to turn. The man was holding a gun and it fired, three times, one after the other, like short, sharp cracks. Dad didn’t scream, didn’t cry; he just dropped to the ground. I just stood there, frozen, looking at this man who’d shot my daddy. He stepped into the hall and I thought he was going to shoot me too. He raised the gun again and tried to shoot Daddy again, but the gun must have jammed or something. He looked at me and said something, but I couldn’t make out what it was, because the helmet muffled him, you know, and my ears were still ringing from the gunshots. But he said something, a word. Then he turned and ran outside to a bike with another man already on it waiting and they drove off.’

She shifted her head slightly, moving her hand to wipe away a tear, then sniffed.

‘I went over to Daddy and sat with him. He was breathing funny, like he couldn’t catch a breath, and there was blood bubbling from a hole, from the gunshot wound in his chest. A second shot had hit his shoulder and the third had gone through his cheek. He was trying to talk, but it was like the words weren’t there, like his breath wouldn’t come right to make them. I knelt down beside him and the ground was already soaked with his blood. I started shouting for help, but some of the neighbours were coming running and I could hear screams and crying from outside. I took his hand, and it was warm and he had this blister from where he’d been gardening that day and I was worried that I’d hurt his hand when I held it. I felt him squeeze my hand once, and then he gave this really deep breath and the bubbling at his chest stopped. And when I looked, the light had just slipped from his eyes.’