Admittedly his efforts could be better, but there are days he can barely lift his head, never mind fill in some stupid application form that won’t even secure him an interview in the first place. His criminal record – petty crimes: drunk and disorderly, breaking and entering business premises – hasn’t endeared him to prospective employers.

‘Well, you know. Irons in the fire and all that,’ he says.

‘I’d think those irons would be well heated by now,’ Niall says, eyeballing him.

When, Declan wonders, did they drift apart? They were as thick as thieves as children – impossible to tell apart – and now he barely recognises his brother when he looks at him. He’s certainly nothing like the reflection Declan sees in his own mirror. And it’s not just because of his brother’s shiny suit and the moisturised skin. It’s the look in his eyes.

Contentment? No, he doesn’t think it’s that. Coldness, maybe? There is a bitter streak in his brother, buried below the surface but there all the same. Maybe it’s just smugness, he thinks. Niall Heaney certainly thinks he is better than the family he left behind in Derry. That much is obvious.

‘Here, Declan. I was talking to Paddy up at the shops and he told me he saw you talking to that Ingrid Devlin girl the other day,’ his ma says.

He notices how Niall’s eyes widen just a little.

‘What’s the great Ms Devlin doing slumming it back in Creggan?’ Niall asks. ‘Surely she didn’t come here just to see you?’

‘Niall, don’t be such a brat to your brother,’ his ma chimes in, and Declan feels all of fourteen years old again.

‘She was working, as it happens,’ he says. ‘What with Kelly Doherty’s anniversary coming up and Jamesy making noises about appealing his conviction.’

A silence descends on the room. Knives and forks stop clattering against plates. His da puts his cutlery down altogether, sips from his glass of milk before putting it down, a little too heavily, on the table. The room is silent now, apart from the ticking of the kitchen clock.

‘I don’t see the need to be dredging any of that horrible business back up again,’ his ma says, lifting the tea towel she had draped over her knee as a makeshift napkin and folding it before setting it on the table and getting up, her dinner barely touched.

‘You know, he’s saying he’s innocent,’ Declan said. ‘That he was set up. He has campaigners and all.’

‘Jesus, Mary and Saint Joseph,’ his da says. ‘He must have a death wish. Was it not proven in court? Is that not enough for him? He’d be best to keep his mouth shut.’

The volume of Declan’s da’s voice has increased just a fraction with every word. Declan notices the muscles tense in his da’s jawline.