Nana’s walls are covered in Jesuses. Why did Jesus wear dresses and have long hair like a girl? Did he feel like a girl? The curtains are shut even though it's daytime, and the house smells like the toilets in school, especially in Nana’s bedroom. But no children live here, just my Nana and Lucy.

Lucy’s old like Nana, at least seventy, sits shrink-wrapped in the corner. Nana lets her live here and buys her clothes because Lucy’s in continent. Nana says Poor Little Lucy was brought up in an orphanage, never married, never went to Church. Nana says blessed are the poor, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

There’s a red light above the front door, which means Jesus is here. But I can’t see him. Nana says I don’t love Jesus enough, unhooks a Jesus from the wall and props him on the table. She makes me sing ‘I Am God’s Little Soldier.’ Does that make me a boy? Perhaps Nana wants me to be a boy. Once Lucy said let Gemma sing something else, she doesn’t like it, and Nana smacked her on her knees, told her it’s not up to her.

There are dirty cups on the dressing table because Nana reads tea leaves. Once I said tea leaves aren’t words, and Jesus doesn’t like magic, but Dad said don’t be cheeky. Nana makes me hold out my palm, says my heart line splits in two, and one day I'll have to choose who to love. Then Nana and Dad and Lucy drink tea, and I get a glass of milk. We visit every week, and I have to go too because Dad says ten-year-olds can’t be left on their own.

Today, me and Dad are watching telly when his phone rings. Dad leaves the room to answer it. I hear crying, run into the kitchen, and Dad’s slumped over the worktop, sobbing What more God, what more? Nana’s dead. I put my arm around him to make him stop, and he looks at me like he doesn’t know who I am.

Days later, we go to Nana’s, and Lucy lets us in. All the curtains are open and the house smells like a sunny day in the garden. Lucy’s got taller, she’s wearing one of Nana’s dresses, and there’s cigarette ash in all the cups. Dad says he’s sorry but Lucy’s just a lodger and she can’t stay here now and Lucy says her church friend’s a solisister, thinks Lucy may have a case. Dad says I don’t think you do, Lucy.

Dad doesn’t want to stay; he stomps off without me, his mouth all tight-to-burst like it’s full of spit. From the doorway, I watch him go.

“Come on,” says Lucy, “let’s have tea together.”

She takes my hand and leads me into the kitchen, says my hair looks so pretty, says she can be my Nana now if I want, says we can sing pop songs together and leave Jesus hanging.