Cormac watched the Prime Minister’s phone light up. The old man turned his back to him and took two short paces away from him. When he turned, he tried to speak, but no words came out of his mouth. He put his hand on Cormac’s shoulder.

‘I am so very sorry, son, I….’

Cormac knew he couldn’t let him finish. He wouldn’t let him finish.

‘No! I don’t want to hear it! I don’t want to hear what you have to say to me! You promised me … you promised me as a friend she was safe. You said you spoke to her! At four o’ clock today, you told me you spoke to her! I wouldn’t have gone through with it, but you told me she was safe. So don’t you fucking dare tell me you are sorry. Don’t!’

The old man walked him to the doors of the great hall to prevent the small number who were staring from growing any larger. Once outside, the Prime Minister fumbled for the bench that sat at the top of the great staircase. He opened his shirt to stem the flow of sweat gathering on his forehead. Cormac slid down the wall next to him.

‘Why? Why did you lie to me? You, of all people. I trusted you. You’re supposed to be my friend.’

The old man spoke through his fingers that now appeared to be trying to block his words from finding their way through.

‘It was not my decision, Cormac. This was bigger than all of us. I was told they located the area where they thought she was being held, but it was a false alarm. By then, it was too late to alter anything. I have hoped and prayed all day they would find her, but they didn’t. Not until it was too late.

‘What happened?’

The old man did not respond.

‘How did my daughter die?’

‘There was an explosion in a car on a country road near Enniskillin. Your brother-in-law was arrested close to the scene. He confessed he’d been acting on orders received at 7:45 p.m. from his Commanding Officer. He said he was a volunteer of the True Irish Republican Army. Cormac, I know you can never forgive me. Your beautiful child is dead. Oh, Christ, Cormac! Little Annie is dead!’

39

He was still speaking but Cormac couldn’t hear any words. It was as if the prime minister’s voice was passing though water before it reached his ears. He knew he wanted to get up from his position on the floor, but his brain was not firing any signals to the rest of his body. He turned to look at the old man, he was still sitting on the bench, but he seemed to be moving away from him. He looked around the great hallway for something solid to focus on, but the walls and the giant staircase appeared to be liquid. He used all of his energy to push his back against the wall. He rose unsteadily to his feet. The sounds began to creep back. He could hear the music and chatter from next door. The orchestra sounded like it had forgotten how to play. The laughter in the room was mocking him. He saw two red-faced men on the stairs pointing at him, talking about him; laughing at him. He tried to shout to them, to walk towards them, but he merely staggered off the wall and fell to the floor like a drunk who’d been hit for the final time in a bar-room brawl. Then there was blackness.