Tom had attempted to rescue Cormac on the previous occasions only to find himself accosted and accused of being ‘a turncoat’ like his brother. On the occasion before last, Tom was offered outside by a man he’d never seen before, who only backed down when he reminded him he couldn’t be fighting in the front garden on the day of his mother’s wake.

‘A wake?’

‘Yes, a wake!’

‘Your mother’s wake?’

‘Yes, my mother’s wake!’

He immediately took his hand off Tom’s shirt and transferred it Cormac’s.

‘And is she his mother, too?’

‘Yes, she’s his mother too!’

He dropped his hands and looked dejectedly at Tom.

‘So I shouldn’t be hitting either one of you today, of all days, should I? It wouldn’t be right now, would it?’

‘No, it wouldn’t be right.’

He trudged past Tom to the front door and turned to look at the bewildered brothers. He pointed to Cormac.

‘I don’t suppose you’ll be around on Saturday, by any chance?’

Cormac glanced at Tom, who was shrugging back at him.

‘Why’s that?’

‘Well, it’s not every day you get to beat up a British minister. I’m just a bit gutted about it all! So I was thinking I could come back on Saturday and, you know, stick one on you then, if you’re around?’

Cormac answered very politely.

‘I’m very sorry, but I’ll be back in England by then, I’m afraid.’

He turned dejectedly and opened the front door.

‘Ah well, not to worry, lads. Thanks for the beer and the spread was lovely. Sorry for your loss.’

And then he was gone.

‘Who the hell was that, Tom?’

‘Absolutely no idea, brother!’

After the dejected gatecrasher left the premises, his brother promised him he was not getting involved in his battles for the rest of the day. So when his pleading eyes landed on Tom, it was no surprise to him when he merely raised a glass and a smile and mouthed his obscenity. Cormac returned the compliment with his middle finger, before escaping to the safety of the little upstairs room.

He didn’t hear Tom walk across the room or feel him sit on the edge of the old bed.

‘Fancy a drink, Cormac? There’s some food and sandwiches and a wee singsong laid on in Lalor’s.’

Cormac didn’t respond. He was momentarily lost in his thoughts. He was holding onto his mother’s book of prayers. Had she gone through this ritual every night? How many times must she have prayed for him? Had she prayed in vain one day he would once again walk up the path, and wave at her through the window?

‘Cormac, we should go to Lalor’s. Everyone will be expecting us to.’

Cormac sat up in the bed.

‘You know I can’t go there, Tom.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because I’m a British Government minister, and it has been, and always will be, a Republican pub.’

‘It’s also your mother’s wake. Anyway, hasn’t anyone told you across the water the war is over? Gerry and Martin are proper politicians now, just like your good self!’