All night I hear the rain drumming on the skylight in the bathroom, and it reminds me of the sound of my mum, peeing into a bedpan, and how we used to remark on that in the leather-sofa hospital surrounded by fields of tomatoes—how her peeing into the plastic bedpan sounded exactly like rain on the bathroom skylight at home. There’s a bleary photo in the catalogue I bought in Almería, of a girl in Palomares eating a tomato from the time of the Incident—it’s captioned ‘Girl eating a Raf tomato’—which seems anachronistic; I don’t think Raf tomatoes were a thing then. The point anyway was not what kind of tomato but how cavalier they were about the clean-up. I don’t know if the tomatoes we ate were radioactive. Yesterday I went to a paint shop, to see if they’d any giveaway calendars, the ones with all the saint’s days. They hadn’t, but a man who’d been chatting to the woman on the till told me he’d one I could have. He took me to his gym nearby, explaining on the way that the calendar was from one of those companies that move earth—he gestured churning with his arms as he walked—and it was: I unrolled the calendar with its pin-up yellow JCB. The company was based in Palomares—where the bomb, where the tomatoes, where maybe the cancer. And it felt like a sign, these diggers chewing up the earth. And can I write about this if I don’t have all the facts? Because that’s not what I care about, the facts.