Cormac shook himself from the bed and stumbled to the bathroom. He splashed the icy water against his face.

‘Christ, you look your age!’

He glanced in the bathroom mirror to see a smiling Annie hovering at the door. He stared at his reflection in the dimly lit mirror. His blue eyes, once his most attractive feature, were now sunken shells permanently framed by the black circles that appeared overnight in his late thirties. He was never sure whether this was the result of too much time spent in dingy rooms poring over ancient texts, or even more time spent in dingier pubs slumped over freshly poured drinks. He slapped some life into his pale and sagging cheeks.

‘You can say that that again.’

He reached for his beautiful girl. He pulled her tightly to him and wished he could fast forward today’s events. It took him by surprise when he felt the water trickle down his cheek and fall gently onto her hair.

‘What time’s Nan’s funeral, dad?’

‘11:30, I think.’

‘Oh shit, that’s in half an hour!’

He shook his head.

‘Annie.’

‘What?’

‘You’ve got a filthy mouth!’

‘Sorry, dad.’

‘Annie.’

‘What?’

‘Guess what?’

‘I know. You love me!’

After she’d had gone downstairs, Cormac walked wearily back to the bedroom. He opened the faded curtains. As the mid-morning sun illuminated the dull little bedroom, Cormac felt a shudder that began at his shoulders and made it all the way to his toes. On the wall to his right was every proud memento of his academic and sporting achievements. On the thin shelf that divided the wall in two, stood eight or nine dusty trophies, untouched since the day he left; an homage to a lost child. He studied the tired little space. This room, once the centre of his universe, felt like it belonged to someone else. So much had changed since he’d last slept here. His beloved father had long since passed on, and now his mother lay downstairs as silent as stone.

Annie snapped him from his melancholy.

‘Dad, you’ve really got to come downstairs, the house is a mess and Aunty Maggie will be here any minute. Besides, I found some eggs in the fridge and made some scrambled eggs.’

‘I didn’t know you could make scrambled eggs.’

‘I can’t. It started out as an omelette and just sort of became scrambled eggs!’

Cormac smiled and started towards the stairs.

‘How long is it since we’ve been in Ireland, Annie?’

‘Dad, I’ve never been in Ireland.’

He felt a surge of guilt. He had not set foot in Ireland since the day he scurried away as a terrified boy on a cold March night in 1987. How his life had changed. Today he sat in his childhood home as Cormac O’Reilly MP, junior minister at the Home Office. A former high-flying barrister, earmarked as a future prime minister. He’d achieved so much. Had he lost too much?

He pulled his chair up to the familiar kitchen table. He remembered the day his father had proudly brought it home, oblivious to the fact its presence in the narrow kitchen meant the back door would never fully open again. At this table he learned the art of eating with his elbows strapped tightly to his body, the only way he could get the food from the plate to his mouth without starting a war with Tom or Daniel. A war that, as the youngest, he knew he was certain to lose. He picked up his fork and scooped the egg to his mouth, elbow free and fully functioning.