I spotted two little feathers down by the plug behind the telly. Black-and-white with little pretty speckles on them. They were belters; downy but firm, with a little touch of shimmer to the pattern. They would make for perfect fishing flies. I’d forgotten to save any of the turkey feathers for Brian and though he hadn’t said anything I’d felt bad that they’d all gone in the bin. These two might be a nice surprise for him when he got back. I pulled myself out of the chair and got down on my hands and knees and reached behind the spindly legs of the set. They were a bit out of reach and I had to push forward, static making my face tingle, before I could close my fingers around them. Maybe I overbalanced. Maybe that was when my knees started playing me up. But I know a sharp pain went from my ankle to my hip bone and it made me lurch forward like somebody had kicked me up the backside. I gave a yelp and tried to stop myself but the telly was just too heavy and it went over backwards like one of those chimney stacks that they blow up with dynamite. The set hit the wall and as I wrapped my arms around I heard the sound of wood hitting wood.

It took me a moment to wrestle everything back into place. I was sweating and sore and Bob Monkhouse was still prattling on but there seemed no harm done. I heaved the telly back onto the stand and put the feathers in my pocket and stepped back to push my hair back from my red face. As I did so I looked down, half-remembering the unexpected noise of wood on wood. I peered down the back of the telly and saw the little patch of empty space in the skirting board and the wooden panel on the floor. I had a sudden memory of the false panel in the church; the recollection of the gun against my fingers and the burnt pages in my hand. I should have left them all where they were. No good had come of looking into the forbidden spaces. I hunched down, pain in my legs, and reached inside the hole.

I knew what I had found even before I looked at it. The cassette felt cool and plastic against my fingertips. I dragged it out of the wall and held it up. The words written in black ink upon the paper strip at its centre were simple and direct.

For Fairfax – and whoever else needs to know.

For a moment I just stood there, swaying slightly, hot and sore and sweaty with the sound of ‘Hark the Herald Angels’ warbling out of the radio to do battle with the sound of water boiling on the stove and hot fat sizzling in the oven.