‘Bad things do happen there,’ I’d said. ‘It’s never been a happy place for me.’

‘I think it goes deeper than that,’ she’d said, ‘but look, never mind me. I’m probably just away with the fairies again.’

I replay that conversation in my head as I reach the top of the stairs. Stella has always been intuitive. She jokes that in olden times she would most likely have been burned at the stake for being a witch.

She’s right about the creepy feeling under this roof though, especially in this dimly lit hall, the ticking of the clock echoing around the quiet house.

I’ve kept all conversation with my father functional so far today. Did he need anything? Should I freshen his water? Plump his pillows? Did he need anything picking up from the chemist?

He’d asked me to return some library books for him, pick him a few he had reserved behind the desk. I’d jumped at the chance. Of course I didn’t think that in doing so I’d have to listen to the simpering librarian behind the desk wax lyrical on what a wonderful man he was and how he must be a great father. I nodded, made relatively non-committal noises. She’d become misty-eyed.

‘A terrible tragedy. He’s so young still, and such a good man. They say God takes the good ones first,’ she said. ‘You must be beside yourself at the news.’

I’d been so, so tempted to tell her that I wasn’t beside myself at all at the news. That I’d spent more time than I’m proud of wishing he was dead. A wicked voice inside me wanted to scream: ‘The sooner the bastard is in the ground the better.’

I didn’t, of course. And for now I’m doing what my mother wants me to do. I am being there for him. Smoothing waters, even though I know no matter how calm the surface, there is an undercurrent threatening to drag me down at any moment.

I take a deep breath. I won’t let that undercurrent win today. I plaster something akin to a smile on my face and carry the tray into his room, where he’s sitting up in bed, reading a newspaper, his glasses perched on the end of his nose. He needs a shave, but I’ll not be offering to help with that. He looks much brighter than he did when I first saw him three days ago. There is some colour back in his cheeks. He smiles back at me. Or leers. It strikes me that there has always been something about his smile that makes me feel uncomfortable.

‘Here’s your lunch,’ I say, sitting it across his lap and making sure he has everything he needs.

I don’t want to be in this room with him any longer than I need to be, so I turn to leave.

‘Ciara?’ His voice is thin and reedy – thinner and reedier than it probably needs to be. ‘Come and sit with me. Just while I have my lunch. Then you can get back to hiding downstairs again. Or you can go home. But just give me five minutes of your time, please.’