Chris Harper has been dead for nine months, a week and five days.

Dad gives Holly a no-hands hug and leans down so she can kiss his cheek – stubble, cigarette smell. ‘Show me,’ he says.

‘Dad.’

‘Show.’

‘You’re so paranoid.’

Dad wiggles the fingers of one hand at her, beckoning. Holly rolls her eyes and holds up her key ring. Her personal alarm is a pretty little teardrop, black with white flowers. Dad spent a long time searching for one that looks like a normal key ring, so she won’t get embarrassed and take it off, but he still checks every single week.

‘That’s what I like to see,’ says Dad, going back to the potatoes. ‘I heart my paranoia.’

‘Nobody else has to have one.’

‘So you’re the only one who’ll escape the mass alien abduction. Congratulations. Need a snack?’

‘I’m OK.’ On Fridays they use up their leftover pocket money on chocolate and eat it sitting on the wall at the bus stop.

‘Perfect. Then you can give me a hand here.’

Mum always makes dinner. ‘Where’s Mum?’ Holly asks. She pretends to focus on hanging up her coat straight, and watches Dad sideways. When Holly was little her parents split up. Dad moved back in when she was eleven, but she still keeps an eye on things, especially unusual things.

‘Meeting some friend from back in school. Catch.’ Dad throws Holly a head of garlic. ‘Three cloves, finely minced. Whatever that means.’

‘What friend?’

‘Some woman called Deirdre.’ Holly can’t tell whether he knows she was looking for that, some woman. With Dad you can never tell what he knows. ‘Mince finely.’

Holly finds a knife and pulls herself onto a stool at the breakfast bar. ‘Is she coming home?’

‘Course she is. I wouldn’t bet on what time, though. I said we’d make a start on dinner. If she gets back for it, great; if she’s still off having girl time, we won’t starve.’

‘Let’s get pizza,’ Holly says, giving Dad the corner of a grin. When she used to go to his depressing apartment for weekends, they would order pizza and eat it on the tiny balcony, looking out over the Liffey and dangling their legs through the railings – there wasn’t enough room for chairs. She can tell by the way Dad’s eyes warm that he remembers too.

‘Here’s me giving my mad chef skills a workout, and you want pizza? Ungrateful little wagon. Anyway, your mammy said the chicken needed using.’

‘What are we making?’

‘Chicken casserole. Your mammy wrote down her recipe, give or take.’ He nods at a piece of paper tucked under the chopping board. ‘How was your week?’