‘Okay,’ I agreed. ‘But out the door. Let me get you a saucer to stub the butt out on.’

‘You’re a star, Ingrid Devlin. You always were a class act,’ he says, pulling a small tin from the pocket at the front of his shirt – the one item of clothing that hadn’t been soaked right through – and rolling himself a cigarette.

I watch as his long, thin fingers fold the paper, sprinkle in tobacco and maybe something else before he licks the edges of it with the very tip of his tongue and seals it. My skin prickles. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on edge. My body is on high alert.

Maybe I’m more scared of Declan than I’m willing to admit to myself. I seem to be scared of a lot of things just now. People smashing car windows and breaking into my flat. The feeling that something is off-kilter with the world.

He lights the cigarette, inhales deeply before blowing a long stream of smoke out of the balcony door, not that that gets rid of the smell. Smoke blows back into the room on the wind.

‘I don’t want to think bad of him,’ Declan says after a pause. ‘He’s my brother and I love him, but I also think something’s not quite right with him. It’s almost … well, it’s hard to explain, but it’s almost as if he doesn’t feel things the way other people do. Can’t feel sorry for people. Or happy for people. Shit, what’s the word I’m thinking of?’

He stares out into the night sky. The rain is still coming down in sheets. I want him to close the balcony door, keep the place warm and dry. And safe.

‘Empathy?’ I offer as he turns his head to look directly at me. He looks so ridiculous in my white robe, his skinny legs peeping out from under it.

‘Yes! That’s it. Empathy,’ he says. ‘I always knew you were good with big words! He lacks empathy. Sometimes I think he has done so well in life because he doesn’t ever think about how other people think or feel, or worry about the consequences of his actions.’

I watch as the ash builds at the end of the cigarette, threatening to drop onto my cream carpet. I blink myself back into the present. Into this talk about empathy.

‘But he’s a primary school teacher,’ I say. ‘Seems an odd career choice for someone who doesn’t seem to care about other people.’

I think of the pictures I’ve seen on Niall’s Facebook page. A very proud, devoted teacher staring back at me.

‘I used to joke with him that he liked a captive audience. Well, he likes an audience who have to do exactly what he says even more.’