Bridie must have sent word with Daddy that she needed a lift to the wake and by the by Auntie Eileen trundled down the hill and on to the street. We made tea and none of us mentioned yesterday’s wedding, the bump, the fact that I had a face the size of a football, that I had left home without even knowing it. I wanted to bring all of those things out and lay them on the table right beside the biscuits but I was too ashamed. I hoped Daddy wouldn’t tell his sister what I’d roared after him. I hoped nobody would ever be told that I’d behaved so badly on the day another family would be waking their murdered son.

They were discussing the horror ahead of them. Bridie was worried she wouldn’t be able to look his poor mother in the face. She was bringing four rounds of ham sandwiches: good ham off the bone not washings. Auntie Eileen had two dozen scones, a box of teabags and an emergency bottle of Lourdes water. They were part of the advance army of women who would show up to try and console Mrs McCourt. The remains were being released from Omagh Hospital to O’Carolan and would be back in the front room by night-time.

As they wittered on about washing teacups and boiling water, Auntie Eileen asked if I was alright and I said, yeah, I’m grand and she seemed pleased enough though I’d never seen such a strained smile. She hates wakes, especially the wakes of young men. She wants no reminding of her lost husband, Nicky D’Angelo. She still longs for him. She’s always been furious that there was hardly a mark on him after he crashed his motorbike. He looked as if he was sleeping. His lips still sang to her. His eyes shone behind the dead lids. She won’t have that problem tonight. The violence that has taken Sean McCourt will be on full display.

It was a given that I would not be going with them. I was to be hidden away, me and my bump of shame. I was too scared to go anyway, afraid of what I might have to see and hear.