‘Were you talking to that fucker?’ Richard said.

‘He just said hi, Richard.’

‘Come on,’ Richard said, putting his arm around Laura’s neck. ‘Let’s get the fuck out of here.’

‘Relax, Richard,’ Laura said.

Richard stopped, and leaned away from her, scanning her body with a critical eye.

‘Nice hoodie,’ he said. ‘What the fuck did you wear that for?’

‘I was cold,’ Laura said.

‘I’m fucking going home,’ Richard said. He strode off, shaking his head and swearing at the sky.

They were a little way along the main street now, away from the majority of the people who had spilled out of the club. But the street was still crowded, still full of barefoot girls and teetering boys. Laura followed Richard. She shouted his name.

It was 3.15 am.

And Conor Harris found Richard Culhane in the crowd.

We don’t know who said what. We don’t know who did what. After all this time, we still don’t even know who threw the first punch. Richard said it was Conor. Other people said it was Richard. Still other people said it was Stephen O’Brien.

But it doesn’t matter.

The first punch got thrown and then all of them were on him. Stephen and Barry had been a step behind Richard. They were there when it mattered. Conor flailed out with his stocky arms but there were too many people. There were six to ten people and Conor could do nothing.

Afterward Richard remembered only the hatred. He wanted to hurt his own body in the cause of damaging Conor’s. He wanted the exhilaration of it. He wanted the pain.

What did they do to him?

They punched at his belly and ribs for a while, until they got bored of that and moved on to his face. Someone got him in the kidneys – both sides. Stephen O’Brien worked at tripping him, hacking away at his legs.

They punched his face. They elbowed his face. They squeezed his arms and the hollows of his neck. This was a drunken fight. There was no precision. They fought with each other to get a clear punch at Conor. Most of the time they didn’t even know what they were hitting. They lashed out and waited for the sound of yielding flesh.

There was already a lot of blood on Conor’s face. Bruises had closed his eyes. No one remembered him speaking. He may not have made a sound.

He was still standing at this point. Barry Fox dug his fist into Conor’s sternum, then pulled his arm back and landed a punch so heavy it caused his knuckles to ache for days.

(So that all through the next day, as he sat in Pat Kilroy’s office, as he wrote his statement and met his girlfriend, Barry was nursing his sore right hand.)

Laura staggered backwards into Mick Conroy’s idling taxi. She was shouting at the boys to stop.

Richard drove his forearm into Conor’s nose. He felt the snap of breaking bone. He said, ‘Fuck you,’ without recognizing his own voice.