'Why would you not know he was your own father?'

'He wasn't around when I was growing up. I had an uncle who was always over at our house. For whatever reason, I just assumed that he was my dad: that he and my mother had split up when I was born, or some shit like that, and it was easier for my mum not to say anything. Then one day his older brother who everyone assumed was dead showed up out of the blue and it seemed to make more sense that it was him. I'm still not sure if that's the case. But it seems the most likely scenario. We've never discussed it. I can't say for sure, but I don't think he even knew I was his daughter. It sounds complicated, but complicated is my normal.'

The psychiatrist wrote something in his pad, but didn't comment. Instead he asked another question.

'Who is "we"?'

'My mum . . . and my gran.'

'Why d'you think they didn't discuss it with you?'

Keira shrugged. 'Who knows! Too painful, maybe? I really don't know.'

'So what happened with the gun? Can you tell me?'

'I went back into the house, along the hallway.'

'Back?'

'My dad and I had managed to escape.'

'Why didn't your dad go back inside?'

'He couldn't. He was injured. He'd been shot in the leg. He could barely stand.'

The guy nodded for her to continue.

'There was a fight at the top of the stairs . . . on the landing, between my uncle and the main guy.'

'Did you know him: the main guy?'

'Not at the time, but I overheard my dad and uncle talking about it afterwards . . . I heard his name then, but that's something else I need to keep to myself.'

'You said there were three men altogether: what were the other two doing at this point?'

'Nothing . . . they were already dead.'

'So this guy was attacking your uncle?'

'Yeah. He was screaming and howling, his arms flailing around, punching out. There was blood everywhere.'

'Were you trying to get the gun to your uncle?'

'I said a moment ago that I don't remember what I was feeling at the time. That's true, but I do know what I was thinking. From the moment I had the gun in my hand I knew what I was going to do. There was never any doubt. If I'm being honest, I don't think I've been as certain of anything in my life since.' Keira stopped talking and stared at the floor.

After a while the psychiatrist said, 'Are you okay?'

Keira nodded, but didn't speak.

'D'you want to leave it there?'

This time Keira nodded her head and said, 'I don't think I can say the words out loud. If I keep them inside I can almost pretend to myself that it never happened.'

'Have you ever discussed this with anyone else?'

'No. There were only four of us including myself who knew what happened that night.'

'What about the other three?'

'They're dead. There's maybe a fifth,' continued Keira, 'a priest . . . but I'm not sure how much he knows.'

'Maybe we should leave it there for now.'

'I've tried everything else: drink, drugs, suicide. The only thing I haven't tried is talking about it. But now that I'm sitting here, and it's real . . . I don't think I can.'

'It's okay . . . another time.'

'This thing is hollowing me out. It's time for me to take control of it. I need a different perspective.'

'Do you think that by talking it through you'll achieve solace or redemption? How do you see it changing your life?'

'I see it filling the emptiness.'

About the Author.

John Gordon Sinclair was born in Glasgow, Scotland. He moved to London in the early Eighties and now lives in Surrey with his wife, Shauna, and their two children. Seventy Times Seven is his first novel.

ISBN 9780571282784.

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