I’m not my father’s daughter? My heart beats frantically in a combination of confusion and disbelief. Michael? Desperately, I sift through my memories. He’s there, on the periphery. And I realise that, somewhere inside me, I’ve always remembered him. A man who was often part of our lives, when we were too small to wonder why.

I see him. I see Sarah and I skipping along beside him, our small hands trustingly clutching his big ones as he led us through the park, pointing out dragonflies and butterflies, a kingfisher by the water. His twinkling eyes and dark chestnut hair. His warm smile and his lyrical lilting brogue as he entertained us with tales of Ireland, telling us of rich, green landscapes that were a ‘feast for the eyes’.

He’s my father. Even as the penny drops sickeningly into place, it’s as if part of me already knows, has always known.

‘It was all for nothing!’ my mother screams it. ‘Your attempts to pay Julie off, your lies, your cruel, cruel deceit… You’ve destroyed her life, your son’s life, for nothing!’

Jason. My stomach churns with sick realisation. His pitiless persecution of him, the hurt he’d caused him – it was all for nothing – other than to protect his reputation.

Unsteady on my feet, I reach shakily for the doorframe. A bead of sweat drips from my hair, tickles my eyelashes. Using the back of my hand, I wipe it away, rest my forehead harder against the door – and then freeze as I hear the low growl beyond it.

‘Bitch’ – my father snarls it again and I snap my head up, my hand reaching unbidden to wrench the door handle down.

His back is towards me, his wide shoulders hunched over my mother, who is forced against his desk; his hands – hands that lash out and destroy – clutched hard around her throat.

For a second, I am petrified, uncertain, everything inside me frozen. And then a rasp, like a dog coughing, escapes her, and rage – red-hot, all-consuming – erupts, and I am behind him.

Sinews tensed, the knife held high above, a toxic mixture of anger and raw grief broiling inside me, I am poised to drive the blade between his shoulder blades when he crumples.

Bemused, I step back as he flops forwards, landing heavily, his bodyweight on top of my mother.

Uncertain what to do, disorientated, I take another faltering step back as she shoves him off. And another, allowing him space as he buckles at the knees and slides limply to the floor. I look down and see the crimson flower blooming slowly beneath him, the paperknife protruding at a right angle from his neck. I don’t move. Watching in fascination, I see his splayed arm twitch, his fingers crawling along the carpet – a vain attempt to escape – and then I snap my gaze back to my mother.