SOMETIMES I STAB FATHER, SOMETIMES I SMOTHER him with his pillow, sometimes it is the lethal mix of medicines I pour from the vials on his bedside table that kills him. Though there are variations in my method, the dream always takes the same form. I am in the hall, the front door open before me, when I hear Father’s voice. I stand for a moment in the doorway and feel the warmth of the sun on my face. There is a child on the pavement opposite, running headlong from the clutches of its nurse. I consider joining the child in its dash for freedom, slamming the door on Father’s tremulous call. I weigh my hat in my hands. The child and nurse pass from view. I close the front door and watch the light disappear. Then I make my way up the stairs to Father’s room. At his door I pause and look about me. I do not want anyone to witness what I am about to do. Father’s head swivels toward me as I go in. I kill him quickly, effortlessly. I do it without volition and he makes no attempt to resist. It is as if a pact is being played out between us. I walk to the window, pull open the curtains, and let the light flood in. Then I wake up.

We stand together, watching the bearers lower Father into the frozen ground. His cancer has taken him at last. I realize from the look in your eyes that you are determined to remember him as finer than he was, that you will erase from your memory all his petty tyrannies, his appeals for our sympathy. I find it preposterous that you should have such feelings now that we are finally free. Despite your warning glances I refuse to cry. I take the shovel Thoby passes me and let the soil cascade into Father’s grave.

“The king,” you say suddenly, “stopped outside your window and told you the whole dirty tale.”

I look up in surprise from my chair. You point an accusing finger at me.

“There,” you shout, leaping out of bed, “there is the culprit. Seize her!” I do not know for whom your words are intended but they have the effect of bringing the nurse running into the room. She puts a restraining arm round you and coaxes you back to bed. She signals that it would be better if I left.

I stop writing to watch the birds pecking at the bacon rinds Grace has flung on the lawn. I can hear their rapid seesaws of sound even though the window is closed. They sang in Greek, you explained, as I left you to the care of your nurse, though there was no mistaking their meaning.