Dorothy stood in the doorway and looked down the hall. The detritus of an ordinary life, shoes piled on a rack, an umbrella, bike helmets. On the banister were jackets hung by hoods, and on top was Natalie’s school sweatshirt, the burgundy one with the school crest on it. Dorothy stepped forwards and saw something on the sweatshirt, several of the girl’s black hairs clinging to the material. She stared at them for a few moments, listening to Natalie upstairs talking through the door to her mum, the smell of toast still in her nose, cartoons on the television in the living room. Then she carefully picked as many of the girl’s hairs from the sweatshirt as she could see, took out an old receipt, folded the hairs inside the piece of paper and placed it in her pocket. She heard the bathroom door open upstairs as she turned and left, striding down the path and breaking into a jog as she crossed the road to the van. She got in, started the engine and pulled out, not looking in the rear-view mirror as she drove away.

Archie and Dorothy sat in the van waiting for the council waste lorry to pull away from the large commercial bins round the back of St Columba’s. Archie waved to the lorry driver as they passed, and Dorothy felt bad as she thought about their two services picking up different kinds of refuse from the hospice.

They reversed the van to the corrugated metal door and Archie 122killed the engine. He lifted a rolled-up body bag from the back seat and they got out and went to the buzzer next to the gate.

‘Hi,’ Archie said. ‘Skelf’s to pick up Mr Duggan.’

They were buzzed into the nondescript foyer, concrete and pastel paint, linoleum floor. No need to make this appealing to prospective clients, this was the way out in every sense of the word.

A middle-aged woman in blue scrubs emerged from a door.

‘Hey, Archie,’ she said.

‘Moira.’

She saw Dorothy, who never did pick-ups while Jim was still around. You could see her putting it together.

‘I was sorry to hear about Jim,’ she said.

‘Thank you.’

‘He was lovely,’ Moira said. ‘Just a lovely man.’

Dorothy reckoned this woman was maybe twenty years younger than Jim, still attractive, a sparkle in her smile, plenty of ass to hold on to, didn’t men like that? Damn, she had to pull herself together.

‘Thank you,’ she said again, and felt stupid.

A long, awkward silence.

Archie cleared his throat. ‘We’re here for John Duggan?’

‘Of course,’ Moira said, ‘this way.’