Hysterical laughter, people told him. A nervous reaction.

Richard wanted to explain this in court but he couldn’t find the words.

He stood on the flagstones and looked at the surface of the pool.

Christ, he thought, we killed him.

Then he nearly threw up.

Richard said he saw his future, then. He saw the whole thing, the arrests and the garda interrogations and the trials and the years in prison. Richard knew that very soon he would be visiting important buildings – buildings where only important things go down: churches, law courts, hospitals. You know you’re in trouble when your future is full of important buildings.

I’m fucked, he kept repeating to himself, over and over. I’m fucked I’m fucked I’m fucked I’m fucked I’m fucked.

He also thought (strangely, and not for the last time): Time to go, man. Time to go.

He bent over and rested his palms on his knees. He was hyperventilating. He thought he might throw up into the swimming pool. Bizarrely, he remembered a morning in Ocean City, the morning after a party in the beachside condo the boys had rented, when he had staggered out on to the verandah at 7 am and deposited a speckled pint of milky vomit in the wilted shrubbery beyond the fence.

He stared at the swimming pool.

I’m fucked, he thought.

Well, then, he told himself. You better not fucking say anything to anyone, Richard my boy.

Richard looked back at the kitchen window and saw that Katherine had gone upstairs. The shock of nausea had passed. With convalescent gravity he took out his mobile phone and dialled Barry Fox’s number. Barry Fox was an early riser. He would be awake. He would have heard the news.

‘Hello?’

‘Foxer, it’s Richard. Have you heard this shit?’

‘What shit?’

Barry’s voice was grizzled, geriatric. Richard heard the sound of a mattress as it creaked under shifting weight.

‘Fucking Conor Harris is fucking dead, man,’ Richard said.

‘Why? What did he do?’

‘No, I mean he’s actually fucking dead. As in, like, not alive anymore. He fucking died in hospital last night.’

‘What? How?’ There was a silence. ‘Oh fuck.’

‘It’s all over fucking Morning Ireland. My fucking mother just heard it.’

‘Oh fuck. Oh shit.’

‘Listen, Foxer, did anyone see us last night? Can anyone, like, identify us, or whatever?’

‘How the fuck should I know, man? Did you call Steve?’

‘No, calm down, alright, I called you first.’

‘Well what the fuck are we going to do?’

‘Look, come round to my gaff, alright? We’ll have a chat, sort this out.’

‘Okay, I’ll be there in like half an hour.’ There was a pause. ‘Dude, does Laura know?’

‘I don’t know,’ Richard said. ‘I haven’t talked to her.’

‘Okay.’

Richard dialled Stephen O’Brien’s number.

‘Richmeister,’ Steve said. His voice was raw. ‘What’s the story?’

Richard told him.

‘Fuck me,’ Steve said, very quietly.

Twenty minutes later Barry Fox and Stephen O’Brien were sitting in Richard’s living room. It was still raining outside.