Then Dad talks again, and he sounds weird, whispery but urgent, like he’s been running. ‘I should have told you something ages ago.’ He coughs and there’s a smell of beer. ‘I meant to. But it was difficult. I suppose it’s all right, now.’ The gas fire’s scorching my sleeve. I wonder if it’s possible for your clothes to melt while you’re wearing them and still not feel warm.

‘Thing is.’ He pauses, gives me a look.

‘What?’

‘Perhaps I shouldn’t.’

I wait for him to say it.

He does a little cough. ‘The thing is. You should know something.’

‘What?’

‘I think Shane might be – close. To you. To us.’

Could he know about my hand searching in Shane’s pocket? About the feathers in my hair? About the way I nearly slipped down the bank into the pool last night when he shoved his fingers past the elastic of my knickers?

‘I mean, I think he could be related.’

‘What?’

‘You know. Family.’

‘Family?’ I look at Dad then. I see his hopeful, nervous smile.

‘I think he might be my son, love.’

The snot in my nose makes my face ache.

‘Sheila says not. But I think he might be.’ Dad stares into the orange gassy glow. ‘I think your mother suspects.’

I fix my eyes on the hole in his jumper.

‘It’s probably one of the reasons things went wrong for us.’

I think, stop talking. Stop talking.

‘I’m not sure. He looks nothing like me, of course…’

Stop talking.

‘But I’ve got this – feeling, you know?’

I can’t move.

‘I’d like to tell him. But I don’t suppose it would do any good.’

Then he puts his hand on my head. It’s heavy and hot. He strokes my hair.

‘So you two have to look after each other for me.’

Stop talking.

‘Understand?’

Each time his hand falls on my head it’s like he’s pressing me down a bit more. Pressing and holding.

thirteen: Howard, December, 1985

thirteen

Howard

December, 1985

I’d always been better than Kathryn at Christmas. It was the planning, the anticipation, that I enjoyed. The lists of cards to send, food to prepare, presents to buy. Wrapping Robert’s gifts, I loved the sound of sellotape ripping off its hoop, the feel of slicing through paper with the sharpest edge of the scissors. Hiding Robert’s presents in the bottom of our wardrobe, I felt almost as much excitement as I had as a boy, discovering a child’s encyclopedia and a foil-wrapped chocolate Santa beneath Mum’s bed.

I even liked the shopping, as long as it wasn’t at the weekend. And so, that December, I arranged a day off work in order to take Kathryn Christmas shopping, as I did every year. This time, though, we went to the new complex in Swindon.