Her gambling addiction was dispensed with in two lines—she loved the sociability of the bingo and a scratch card on a Saturday evening was ‘a bit of fun’. The reason she’d borrowed four thousand euro on a credit card was because she had a dead cert in the Kentucky Derby. (And it was the Kentucky Derby this time, not the Grand National; addicts tell so many lies that they often can’t keep up.) It wasn’t her fault the horse had fallen.

‘The end,’ she said, with a soft smile.

As always, the group were invited to comment, but today they were curiously reluctant. Only Roxy went for it. ‘You told us nothing about your addiction.’

Helplessly, Trassa said, ‘Roxy, love, I’m sixty-eight years of age, I’ve eleven grandchildren, I’m waiting on a new hip. I’ve no addiction.’

‘You’re trying to manipulate us,’ Roxy scolded. ‘Like, we can’t call you an addict because you’re an elderly lady.’

‘If I had any notion what you were talking about…’ Trassa’s face was a picture of benign perplexity.

I turned to my left. ‘Chalkie.’

‘Yes, missus!’ He sat up straight and saluted me.

‘Why did you give Trassa your chair? At the start of the session?’

‘Because this one’—he rocked himself so hard he almost fell over—‘belongs in Guantánamo Bay.’

‘Would you have given up your chair to Giles?’

‘Um, no. Because I can’t stand the head.’

‘Or Harlie?’

‘Harlie? That one is young and hardy…’ Suddenly his voice trailed off.

‘And Trassa isn’t young and hardy? You gave your seat to Trassa out of respect for her age?’

‘…no. Yeah. I don’t know. Maybe.’

‘None of you are helping Trassa by shielding her from the truth.’ I was stern. ‘This is what you should have said: “Trassa, doing a Saturday-night scratch card is nothing like borrowing four grand on a credit card you’d dishonestly got in your husband’s name, putting it on a horse and being unable to repay it.” ’ I focused on Chalkie. ‘Say something helpful to Trassa.’

‘Ah, here, Rachel…’ He squirmed. ‘Snitches—’

‘—get stitches, Chalkie, no need to tell me. Trassa needs your help. Go on!’

‘Trassa.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I thought that bet was, like, a hundred euro. Four thousand is very different. That’s big money.’

Trassa’s expression sharpened into scorn. ‘You’re a heroin addict, the lowest of the low.’

The group were shocked. Addicts tended to go on the attack when their lies were called out, but this was the first time they’d seen Trassa do it. Suddenly, everyone was staring at their feet, terrified I’d pick them.

‘Giles,’ I prompted.

Oh shit zipped across his face. Nervously he said to Trassa, ‘Why did you take the credit card out in Seamus Senior’s name? Is that not…fraud?’