Washed and shaved. In clean clothes that his mother pressed for him before slipping a twenty-pound note in the back pocket of his jeans. Declan is sitting in the same seat at the kitchen table that he sat at as a child. Niall is directly opposite him, as it always was. His parents fill the remaining two chairs, and Snoopy, his mother’s beloved mutt, is asleep at his feet.

The table is laden with a good Sunday dinner with all the trimmings. Roast chicken, mashed potato, roasties, carrots and broccoli. Gravy so thick you could stand a spoon up in it is sitting in a measuring jug. There’s no need for a gravy boat here. The jug does the job. A tall glass of cold milk sits in front of Declan and it’s all he can do not to shovel the food into him like a savage. He has long passed ‘hungry’ and moved on to ravenous, despite the bacon sandwich he devoured not two hours before.

He feels the gentle pat of his mother’s hand on his, a signal that he can start eating.

‘No potatoes for me,’ Niall says. ‘I’m shredding at the moment, so chicken and veg will be fine. I’ll avoid the gravy, too.’

‘Christ, Niall. That’s no dinner at all. You need more than that!’ Declan hears his ma proclaim.

He himself has two reactions. The first that it means there is more food for him and that’s no bad thing, and the second that his brother really has become a self-important prick recently. ‘Shredding.’ For fuck’s sake. Why? To compete in the primary school teachers’ Olympics? He bites back a smile at his own joke, spears an especially crunchy-looking roast potato on his fork and takes it for a swim around the gravy on his plate before eating it in one bite.

‘I’m not getting any younger, Ma,’ Niall says. ‘I’m just trying to look after myself. No one ever died from going easy on the spuds now, did they?’

‘Apart from all those people in the Potato Famine,’ Declan quips.

His brother glares at him. Niall Heaney doesn’t like being bested by anyone. Declan allows himself to enjoy the warm feeling of smugness at making his brother look stupid.

He ignores his da, who straightens in his chair. Declan knows this body language well. ‘No messing about at the table allowed.’ It was drummed into them from an early age. He decides not to make any more jokes.

‘How’s the hunt for work going?’ Niall asks him, knowing full well that Declan hasn’t been able to secure any work, despite his efforts.