Aberfan is floodlit and teeming. Men swarm over a colossal, ungainly mound, some in lines, passing bucket after bucket to man after man, until the last one empties it into the waiting lorry. Others are bending and straightening, plunging shovels into the dark mountain they stand on, faces like blackened granite. When William spots the school roof jutting out of the slurry at unnatural angles, he swears softly.

Driving slowly because of all the people, he sees a flat-faced, dreary-looking building with a line of women standing outside, a few sitting on metal chairs. Another policeman is at his window immediately.

‘I’ve got embalming fluid and equipment to unload,’ he says quickly. The policeman stands back and gestures at the piece of pavement directly in front of the chapel and the waiting women. William jumps out of the car, latent energy strong in his limbs. The women stare at him with heavy, dark eyes, and with a flash of heat through his body he realises they are mothers of dead children. He opens the back of the hearse and starts to pull out the formaldehyde, standing the containers side by side. The policeman helps, and a man materialises at his side and does the same. No one speaks.

The chapel door swings open and a man strides out. He looks to William to be in his early thirties, older than him, but much younger than his uncle. He heads straight for the hearse.

‘I’m Jimmy. Jimmy Doyle.’ He doesn’t look at William, but at what he’s brought with him. ‘Thank God,’ he says quietly, when he sees the small coffins. ‘We brought a load from Ireland. The airline even took the seats out so we could fit them in, but they weren’t nearly enough.’

William doesn’t know what to say, so he just keeps pulling the fluid containers from the hearse and placing them onto the pavement.

‘As soon as you’re unloaded, I need you to help in here with identification.’

4

‘Thank you for coming.’ Jimmy puts a hand on William’s shoulder, walking him a few feet away from the gathered women. William’s feet are sticking to the pavement. ‘What’s your name?’

‘William Lavery.’

‘Were you at the dinner dance?’ William nods. ‘It’s pretty basic in there.’ Jimmy has a thick Belfast accent. He’s talking quietly so the women can’t hear. ‘Electricity and water were cut off when it happened. The fire services are doing their best, but for now it’s a hurricane lamp and buckets of water. Doors on trestles for embalming tables.