DAY NINE WAS Christmas Day. The family had all gathered; they decorated the table with holly and crackers. We were all smiling; Dad had been generous with gifts this year. Mum carried the turkey from the oven. Uncle Pete stood, pulled his Browning and shot his brother, my father. The bullet entered below his eye, killing him instantly.
Mum dropped the bird and stood open-mouthed. My sister screamed. GrandDad pushed his chair back and started after Uncle Pete. The door slammed. Uncle Pete fired the engine and screeched down the otherwise quiet street. The black Jaguar disappeared by turning left.

I jogged back inside. Granddad was coughing and bent double by the door to get his breath back; I passed him to check on my Mum. She was crying, slumped in an armchair. My fifteen-year-old sister cal...

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