The moment he dies, the room explodes with life.

I am up, pulling open drawers and dragging out underpants, singlets and socks with ugly, trawling fingers.

I’m probably in too much of a hurry, but there you go . . . I don’t care.

I wonder why I didn’t do this sooner, why I waited until the end.

I can’t find it.

I want to ring Mark (but of course I can’t) and scream, ‘He’s dead. He’s dead. Do you know where it is?’

He’d say, ‘On the nail.’

I’d say, ‘Nail? What nail?’

‘In the wardrobe.’

I yank open the single door of the old wardrobe and stare at the clothes hanging there. Thirteen sets of clothes he hung with obsessive care and put on so many times they took on his shape. Thirteen images of my father.

One by one, I pull them out and toss them on the floor.

Dad the longest-standing Elder.

Dad in the vegetable garden.

Dad trying to impress the bank manager.

Dad playing bowls.

Dad fishing.

Dad fixing fences.

Dad killing Ruths. I stop. All those chooks over all those years, each one called Ruth, each one beheaded by him on the chopping block. I throw ‘Dad killing Ruths’ to the floor and continue.

Dad praying with Mr and Mrs Boscombe after Wendy disappeared. Poor Wendy Boscombe. Ruth was right when she said they’d never find her or her missing doll.

Dad playing in the band.

Dad at Hall Committee meetings.

Dad at Bible Study.

Dad milking cows.

Dad goal-umpiring. White trousers, white shirt, long white coat. Like a modern-day angel. (Right at the back, I notice.)

I stick my hand into the darkness, and my palm hits something sharp. I peer in. And there it is. A solitary nail hammered into wood. And hanging on the nail is a belt.

One belt. And ten thousand magenta screams…

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