‘I don’t know where I went wrong with you boys,’ she says, shaking her head. ‘You were thick as thieves as children and now it’s like you can’t stand to be near each other.’

‘You didn’t go wrong, Ma. Our lives are very different is all,’ he says, and she offers him a pitying look in response.

‘I suppose,’ she says. ‘But, Declan, you’re still young, you know. You’ve a lot of living left to do. If you just … you know …’

Her sentence trails off as if she has already exhausted all the ‘if you justs’ over the years.

‘I know,’ he says, because he does know.

If he could stop letting that niggle of doubt and self-hatred in. If he could simply stop fucking up his own life.

He pauses. ‘So, Niall didn’t say why he was coming down?’ he asks.

‘Oh, he did. He told me. He’s been talking to that Ingrid Devlin one, too. I think he’s meeting her. I’ve not told your father. You know he won’t like it. I can’t say I like it, either,’ she says.

Declan feels the fragile casing of his good day start to crack. It could shatter at any second.

‘Seems neither of you boys listen to me when I warn you to stay away from her. There’s no need to go digging up the past. Let it alone.’

Chapter Twenty-One

Ingrid

There’s a crick in my neck, which I’m trying my very hardest to ease by rolling my shoulders and kneading my tightened muscles. Day has turned to night without me even noticing; although to be fair, in the dimly lit newsroom it’s quite a common occurrence for time to pass, seasons to change even, without us paying attention.

I’ve been in my glorious bubble all afternoon. That place where nothing exists except for me and the tip-tap of my fingers on the keyboard – words coming to life on the screen in front of me, creating a story. Giving people a voice. I know that may sound self-aggrandising, but it’s what I love most about my job.

I know this is a good piece. Dammit, I know it’s a brilliant piece. It is respectful, heart-rending, and contains just enough salacious detail to keep the public reading. It’s a balancing act, but one I think I’ve managed well.

I grimace as I lift the coffee cup from my desk and put it to my lips. It’s stone cold. I’m not sure how long it has been sitting, but I know by the growing pressure behind my eyes that I need a caffeine injection, and quickly. I file my story, sending it through the system to Ryan to read and edit, and get up, taking my cup with me and heading for the staff kitchen.