Please God, who I don’t believe in, let him reply to me.

I remembered, with a twinge of anxiety, that I had forgotten to do the ham. The list of nineteen Christmas dishes was divided up in November, so that we could cook in advance, freeze, and reheat on the day, to allow for relaxed, cheerful, and festive family time.

The ham had been my grandfather’s favourite. One year, appalled by our wasteful refusal to eat the fat of the ham, he had collected the refuse from our plates to create a white mound of gristle on his. He grimly ate his way through the fat, as we watched in disgust and admiration.

Breakfast was cleared away (I hovered with my untouched plate, pretending to be busy) and everyone left the kitchen, giving me a quick chance to do the ham before maternal eyes noticed my neglect of duties.

I pulled the ham out of its plastic straight onto the counter. I began to stab it with cloves, which snapped off before they penetrated its rubbery flesh. I grabbed a big knife and bayoneted the body, jamming cloves into the wounds as I inflicted them. The knife might easily slip and cut my hand; I would have to go to the hospital, and someone would need to tell my boyfriend what had happened.

I put the ham in a pot with an onion and poured over a litre of coke, turning the heat up. It bubbled up to the rim but settled down. If it boiled over there would be trouble.

My mother came into the kitchen and leaned against the counter, placing her hand where the uncooked ham had sat. She didn’t appear to feel any residue from the liquid that had dribbled out of its packaging. ‘You’re doing the ham now? We’re going for a walk, can you leave it?’ she said, reaching into the bag of crisps on the side, and putting one into her mouth. I nodded. My mouth was furry from hunger, but I didn’t want the crisps anymore.

I decided to send my boyfriend the cousin screenshot; he couldn’t ignore that one! I debated captions.

‘We’re leaving right now,’ she shouted from outside. ‘Hurry up!’ I ran after them, getting dizzy from the exertion. We trudged through a flooded field and then up the hill past the wood. The dog wouldn’t come back; my father shouted its name fruitlessly and repeatedly.

‘Come. Come. COME!’ I bellowed in clipped tones, imitating my grandfather calling for his disobedient dog. My sister started to laugh – it was one of the jokes from our family repertoire – and stopped. My mother came towards me, her face and eyes red. She grabbed me above my elbows and shook me. I shouted, ‘Calm down!’ shaking her back. I wondered if I would slap her.

I ran away into the wood, going down the hill and then wading through the river as if I hoped my pursuers would lose my scent. I smelt something familiar and foul. Fox shit.

The fox was splayed out on the mossy ground like a picture hanging on a wall, its red tail still bushy, its white teeth smiling. Little worms wriggled out of its burst-open stomach, but its nose and paws remained perfect.

I thought about sending my boyfriend a photo of the fox.

When I got back to the house the kitchen was filled with nervous activity. My mother was furiously plunging sprouts into boiling water and trying to stir the gravy at the same time. The other members of the family avoided eye contact, staying busy. My grandmother sipped sherry at the kitchen table, smiling vaguely, oblivious to the rising tension. I could smell burning. The coke had boiled over, fusing tar to the pot and cooker, exposing a pink shrivelled organ. I yanked the ham out, leaving behind a layer of burnt-on skin, put it down on the counter, remembered the raw ham, put it back in the smoking pot, and then onto a plate.

My phone buzzed.

My father popped a bottle of champagne.