‘My father is dead,’ Michal said. ‘When I was five.’

‘Oh, Michal, I’m sorry.’

He was stuck rummaging in behind Jane’s curtain, and attempted to prise the card from her hands as she screamed out, ‘The pain that you’ve been feeling, can’t compare to the joy that’s coming. Can’t compare to the joy, to the joy, the pain can’t compare … lalala,’ she sang out.

‘I sorry too,’ Michal said swiftly, coming back to me.

‘Oh, no, no need. I was way out of line.’

He sat on the edge of my bed. ‘So, what was he like, what he want?’

‘Who?’

‘Your visitor?’

‘Ah, he was just upset, you know, for Shane.’

‘Sad for his brother, no? Why? He never visits him, why they never visited?’ But Michal didn’t wait for a reply, the question didn’t warrant an answer and he got up, and fixed Jane back to bed.

*

‘Hey.’ It was Alex. ‘Evening coffee! Ta-da!’ he said, warmly. He sat on the bed, and moved up closer to me.

‘Oh, Alex, I’m so glad you came back. I’m, I’m, you know, very sorry,’ I stuttered, beginning to cry, and I lurched forward. ‘I don’t even know where to start. I’m so glad, so happy, you came. I’m so … glad.’

Glad. FFS.

Relieved.

He placed the cup of coffee on the bed table and began to look dejected. Maybe we were meant to play ostrich again? Maybe I wasn’t meant to cry. Fuck knows.

‘How’re the kids?’

‘Grand,’ he said, circling his wedding ring about on his ring finger. ‘You know … considering.’

‘That’s something,’ I offered.

‘Your mother has them … said she’d keep them for a few days. As many as … I just can’t, you know. I don’t seem to be able to. I could hardly drive. I mean, I could hardly change gear. I drove straight through a red light. I’m not …’

‘Great, good that she’s taken them. She won’t mind … she loves …’ I interrupted myself. ‘Oh, fuck, Alex … please say you didn’t tell her?’

He paused.

‘Alex? Oh, fuck, no … Alex … did you say anything?’

He looked bereft. ‘No, Sinéad, no, no, I didn’t …’

‘How’d Joshua’s game go?’ I asked quickly.

‘Lost.’

‘Fuck.’

‘Yeah … but he’s grand, got man of the match.’

His gaze fixed across on Margaret Rose.

Claire was wearing new pink bed socks.

‘Look, love, I’m so sorry, I just couldn’t, I couldn’t believe it fully myself, and then I really tried to …’

‘Nails OK?’ he said, interrupting me, searching the crumpled white sheets for my hands. The varnish was destroyed but one nail was perfect, red and shiny, triumphant, and I tried to lurch it up on top of another, but one lone perfect fingernail wasn’t enough to cover four others that were a congealed mess. I began crying. I tried to think of political leaders naked and of Paul Newman. Nothing worked.

‘Jesus, ah, love, come now,’ he said, ‘not fucking tears … you know I can’t cope when you cry. Dry your eyes, mate.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘Remember it? The song? Jeez, it’s a long time since I heard that on the radio.’ Alex loved remembering the last time he heard songs on the radio.