It was the practice of the priory, working with the school, to invite parents to write a letter to their son in which they said various things they would find it difficult to say under normal circumstances. This letter would be sent to the priory and delivered to the boy as a surprise during the last afternoon session.

The letters followed a predictable pattern. Conor Harris’s letter said, ‘It hasn’t always been easy, son, but you know you can always rely on us to see you through.’ Richard Culhane’s letter said, ‘I’ll always be there on the sidelines, Richie, cheering you on to even better things.’

Richard’s letter had been written by Peter alone. Katherine had refused to have anything to do with it.

Only Peter ever called Richard ‘Richie’.

Receiving the letters at the end of the retreat was a moment charged with emotion. Boys cried on each others’ shoulders.

‘I fucking love my old pair, man,’ Conor Harris said, crying on Fergal Morrison’s shoulder.

Barry Fox’s letter appeared to be from his mother.

The story went around in the week after the retreat. Barry had opened his envelope and read the letter. Although most of the boys in his group were crying, Barry said nothing. He didn’t move.

Barry’s mother had been dead for almost five years at this point.

We heard afterward that the letter contained references to events that had taken place since Barry’s mother’s death.

He didn’t recognize the handwriting.

It was signed at the end, All my love, Mum.

Who wrote the letter? The most logical assumption is that someone at the school wrote it, or someone at the priory. But how had they known enough about Barry’s life to sound convincing? Did Barry’s father collude in the project? Why had anyone thought it would be a good idea to send Barry a letter that appeared to come from beyond the grave?

According to the boys who were in Barry’s group, Barry said nothing for a very long time. The boys took a while to notice that he hadn’t joined in the crying and hugging. Then they collected themselves and asked Barry if he was okay.

He didn’t say anything. He stood up and left the room.

He walked down the main stairs of the priory and opened the front door. A flock of sparrows cast its sudden script across the sky. Crisp fog rose from the stubbled fields.

Barry walked towards the woods. It was a distance of perhaps three hundred yards. He was still holding the letter in his right hand.

It was late afternoon and it was beginning to get cold.

The boys from Barry’s group clustered around the window to watch him, ignoring the protests of the brother who was chairing the session. ‘I swear to God,’ one of the boys said afterward, ‘I thought he was going to top himself. I thought he was going to walk into those woods and we’d find him dangling from a tree a few hours later.’