Her trousers are wet, I notice, and her face is as white as her hands, framed by tendrils of her hair, which is now a mass of frizz. Her blue eyes are ringed with red. She has been crying, but now she is rocking – expending her nervous energy in what little way her body will allow her. Her eyes flash directly to mine as if she both hopes and fears that I have news for her on her husband’s condition.

‘Bernie,’ I say, ‘I heard what happened. My car was attacked, too.’

She blinks at me as if trying to place me.

‘How is he? How is Liam? What did they do to him?’ I ask.

‘Ingrid Devlin, from Leenan Gardens,’ she says, to herself as much as anyone.

Several sets of eyes from around the room focus on me and I look at the other people gathered. There is a man – one of her sons, I think. It’s been a long time since I saw him. And a woman, pregnant, rubbing her stomach as if she is polishing a bowling ball. Her eyes are red-rimmed, too, and she is holding a well-worn Kleenex in her hand. Little pieces of disintegrated tissue fall to the floor like sad confetti.

‘Ingrid that wrote the story?’ the man says. ‘The one in the paper today? The girl that started this up again?’ He stands up and before I can even register the moment, he is powering towards me. ‘Scumbag bitch!’ he shouts, and I flinch, awaiting the physical blow that I’m sure will follow this verbal assault.

‘Christopher!’ Bernie hisses, and it’s enough to stop him in his tracks, his hand frozen somewhere between his towering frame and my face. ‘It’s not her fault. You can’t blame her for what happened to your da. She’s only doing her job. What happened … It was all my fault.’

Christopher Doherty is over six foot tall. He’s of stocky build. It’s clear he works out and by the look of his biceps, he might take a little something to help him along. I can tell he’s normally a guy who wouldn’t be seen outside the house without being groomed to perfection, so to see this giant of a man so dishevelled as he starts to cry in front of me, shaking with anger and pain, feels like a physical blow.

I step back.

‘I’m sure the only people who are at fault are those who did this,’ I say as the pregnant woman places her hand on Christopher’s arm and gently guides him into a hug. ‘It’s okay. He’ll be okay. He’s a strong man.’