He feels better for it. For getting up and getting out of the house. It would be pushing his luck, he surmises, if he showed up with a bag of washing, too. Although his ma would do it for him. She never says no. She might complain, roll her eyes, but secretly, he thinks she’s delighted to help out. She’s guarded with her public displays of affection, aware that she will be accused of being ‘too soft’ on him, but she has other ways to show her love.

She takes care of him, still. She’ll lend him the money for the electricity, which she never wants back. She’ll also drop a few items into a bag for him to take home and fill his cupboards. He used to feel a bit ashamed when she did that – that he wasn’t able to provide fully for his own needs – but now he sees it for what it is.

It’s love.

Or that’s what he tells himself.

His mood dips, however, when he turns into his street and sees Niall’s car – a shiny 4x4 with all the latest auto gadgetry – parked outside. Niall, the only person in the world who can make him feel worse about his life than his da can. He’s tempted to turn and go back home, but he’s come this far now and his stomach is grumbling, anxious to be fed. The lure of a warm bath is also too strong to ignore, especially walking in the icy-cold rain with the wind blowing a gale. He’ll offer up his time with Niall for the holy souls, he thinks – not sure if he believes that souls exist, holy or otherwise, or if they go anywhere after a person dies.

An image of Kelly Doherty, on the banks of the reservoir, comes back into his mind. Her eyes wide and glassy when they turned her over. Her mouth open just a little. Mud and blood. Filthy water trickling out between her once pale pink lips. They weren’t pink any more. She was translucent. Except for the places where decomposition had already begun.

He pushes the image from his head. Wishes there was a way he could push it from his mind permanently. This bloody anniversary is stirring up too much. He pauses at the end of his mother’s garden path and wonders does Niall think about it much. Does it keep him awake at nights? Does he have to self-medicate to try to forget? Probably not. He’s too happy. Too successful for that. He self-medicates maybe with his designer clothes and his fancy car.

The sight of smoke curling from the chimney and the promise of a warm fire are what finally persuade him not to turn round, after all. He doesn’t have to talk to Niall. Not much, anyway.