But most of the stories Tim’s dad told him were really lessons. Most of them were rooted in things that happened in Tim’s life.

Then there was the story that Tim remembered most clearly of all. That one was rare, because he could remember some of the build-up as well as the story itself. He couldn’t remember why or what had prompted it, but he knew he’d spoken back to his dad earlier that day. Maybe told him to shut up or go away, something like that. Probably the only time he’d ever spoken back to his father.

His dad had obviously noted its significance too, because later that night he was perched in his usual position at the foot of Tim’s bed telling him about The Boy Who Wouldn’t Listen.

Tim remembered this story extra well, because it had given him bad nightmares at the time. Nightmares that continued intermittently for years afterwards, and which even now as a teenager he found himself having every once in a while.

‘Can you see up there?’ Tim’s dad had said, pointing to the middle of Tim’s ceiling. Tim looked and saw he was pointing to the hatch that led up to the attic. Tim had never been up there before, partly because it was impossible to clamber up to, and partly because his mum told him there was nothing up there but dust and perhaps mice, anyway.

‘Have you ever been up there?’ Tim’s dad asked. When Tim shook his head, he smiled. ‘Good. That’s a good idea. Because there’s something that lives up there, you know. A monster.’

At this point he’d taken off his glasses and put them in his lap. Tim noticed once again how yellow his eyes were in the light.

‘This monster only wakes up once or twice a decade,’ he said. ‘And when it does wake up, it’s normally hungry. Very, very, hungry.’

Tim felt the usual cold fear go through him that he felt whenever his dad was telling a story, but this time it was worse. He glanced up at the hatch in his ceiling and shivered.

‘Is it awake now?’ he mumbled.

‘Don’t interrupt me.’

Tim’s dad leaned forward on the bed and peered down at Tim with his yellow eyes. His mouth was hanging open, and Tim could see the white points of his teeth gleaming in the darkness.

‘Now this particular monster happens to like the taste of children,’ his dad continued. ‘Small ones, teenagers… anything it can get its teeth into, really.’

He smiled, showing more teeth, and Tim resisted the urge to pull his Donald Duck covers up over his eyes.

‘The thing is, though, the monster only really likes the taste of children who don’t behave themselves. Children who don’t listen.