The salmon is nice. So are the eggs. But I can’t shake the image of that car racing towards us and swallowing seems to take up more spoons than it should.

Eating breakfast = 2 spoons

Dad sneaks in as Mum disappears, and sits on the edge of my bed.

‘How’s tricks, kiddo?’

I smile, but keep my eyes on the skirting board. ‘Oh, I’m fine.’

He’s still looking at me and I can tell that smiles and pleasantries aren’t going to cut it today. So I pull my eyes over to his and try to keep them steady. ‘How was the funeral?’

‘Oh, you know – typical funeral really. A barrel of laughs.’

I wouldn’t know. I’ve never been to a funeral. But the dark circles under his eyes tell me that they might not be a laughing matter.

‘I recorded it for you.’

He picks up my plate and starts eating my leftovers like it’s nothing.

I swallow. ‘Oh?’

‘Yup. Took a camera in specially. Sat at the back – although you’d think I’d brought in a fricking clown from the dirty looks I was getting. You’re welcome, by the way.’

I pick at my nails. ‘That’s okay. Thank you, but I don’t need to watch it.’

Forgetting is a far more difficult task at a funeral.

He stops eating. ‘Alice. This is Wesley we’re talking about. I know you never met him in real life, but you were with the bloke every morning on that bike. You were with him when he died, for crying out –’

‘Yes, okay!’ I say, panic jumping up my throat.

Dad looks at me. Hard. I take a breath.

‘Okay,’ I say. ‘I’ll watch it. Thank you.’

Dad pats my hand. ‘Let’s get you ready, then, and we’ll pop it on.’

Getting ready. Walking unsteadily to the en suite. Brushing my hair. Brushing my teeth. Having a wash. Staring at myself in the mirror for a good long time and wondering if I’d look less like my Black Moor goldfish if I bleached my hair blonde, or lost the fringe.

Getting ready = 5 spoons

I’m at eight spoons already and it isn’t even ten o’clock, so Dad helps me back from the en suite and into the black dress I wore for my sixteenth birthday last month. I climb into bed, panting like I’ve been cycling up a hill.

The footage Dad took at the funeral is set up on the laptop, ready to go.

I want to complain. Make up an excuse. Tell him that I don’t need to watch this after all, thank you. That I’m happy in my room, keeping my mind on meadows and music and goldfish.

But there aren’t enough spoons left to protest.

Dad leans over and presses play.

3

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And now I am at a funeral with my dad.