My late father would often appear to me in nightmares as a zombie. But I realised if I wanted to move on, I had to set him free
In Durham, on the bridge by the cathedral, on 11 October 2019, a voice from out of the air commanded me to drown my father.
The night before had been an exhilaratingly messy one. My debut novel, This Is Memorial Device, had been shortlisted for the Gordon Burn prize, and though I didn’t win, I partied with my editor and some friends well into the morning. I had the most fun I’d had in my life.
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