All that could be seen of the station was a tall concrete wall, spiked with reams of barbed wire, huge green galavanize gates and a small door, behind sandbags, that opened into the wall. Beyond that were slated roofs covered by green netting and a single watch-tower. The man in the bowler hat stepped out and stood at the front right-hand side of the hearse. He nodded. The Saracens and the two cars took off again at walking pace. Another few mourning cars slipped surreptitiously in behind as the cortege drew towards the church. Then, flanked by two columns of uniformed policemen, who were in turn protected by armed British soldiers, Jonathan Adams’ coffin was ferried on the shoulders of four young policemen into the quiet graveyard.

“By jingo,” said Joe Love, “he was in the guards.”

“The RUC are not the guards,” whispered Eitne.

Willy was waiting by the grave. And he chose the same verse to read, from the Gospel according to St Matthew, as the priest had spoken over Matti Bonner: He is not dead. He sleepeth.

He is not dead. He sleepeth.

“Imagine,” whispered Bernie Burke in awe, “he went to his grave without taking a drink.” Maisie, in a black wide-brimmed hat, accepted his cap and gloves and the Union Jack. She shook the hands of the Mullet folk and the police inspector. Then she got into the car. Catherine and Sara stepped forward to the edge of the grave. Justin Ruttle from Rathkeale put his arms around them. The policemen stood to attention for a minute’s silence. They seemed to be waiting for a command that never came.

The house, after the funeral, was cold and unwelcoming. The girls moved with trays of sandwiches between the group of policemen in the living room and the few relations who were standing in the hallway and the kitchen. John Lavell, who had driven the Adamses from Mullet, Bernie Burke, Joe Love and Eitne Noone sat together nervously on a sofa, shifting uneasily as if they were only there on false pretences. If anyone spoke to them they answered with unsure smiles. They sat with cups of tea on their knees, each smoking and tapping their ash into a saucer.

“A word in your ear,” Bernie whispered to Catherine.

She leaned down.

“Would there be a drop of drink in the house?”

“I think there might be sherry.”

“Oh, that’ll do nicely.”

“You’ve disgraced yourself again,” announced Joe Love, “asking that poor girl for drink.”

Isolated from the others, they watched the holstered revolvers, the pictures of masons on the walls, the extract from the scriptures above the fireplace. They in turn were observed – the sea-shined faces, the cracks of dirt in their hands, the tobacco-stained fingers, the old-fashioned blue suits, the quiet repetitive voices.

“So you were friends of Jonathan,” said Willy, with a brisk smile.