Francie Byrne and his twin Jay had been honorary members of the Hayes family since Davey joined their band aged twelve. They had been through hell and back together. Francie and Jay were as devastated by Rabbit’s loss as the family and Marjorie were, but Francie understood his job description and that was to keep everyone going – smiling and even laughing if possible – and there was no one better to do so.

After ably assisting Davey in the removal of his father from the clutches of a soft beanbag, Francie drove his van like a man with a death wish. Marjorie said nothing but gripped the seat like her life depended on it. To pass the time he filled Marjorie in on the progress of the young fella who had lost his hand in a samurai sword incident on the factory floor earlier in the week.

‘Playacting . . . We haven’t seen the fucker who wielded it since – he ran off crying and now he’s on the sick with PTSD.’

‘How’s the guy who lost the hand?’

‘Aka The Claw – you know Sheila B’s young one?’

‘Sandra?’

‘That’s right, she put the hand in a towel surrounded by ice and they reattached it. So far, so good.’

‘Do you ever see Sheila B?’ Marjorie asked.

‘Nah, keep clear, although word is she’s fresh out of the nut house.’

‘She’ll probably come to the funeral.’

‘That’s all we need – my missus facing off my mad ex. I’ll have to pick up some Kevlar to wear to this fuckin’ funeral.’

Marjorie remembered Francie and Sheila B’s crazy relationship during the band’s heyday. Sheila was nuts but she was funny and always nice to the younger, shy Marjorie.

He drove on and after a few incidents in which he screamed orders at people in other cars who could not possibly hear him, ‘Green, green, it doesn’t go any fucking greener.’ BEEEEEEEEEEPPPPPPPP. ‘What are ya waiting on, a bleedin’ invitation?’ BEEEEEEEEEPPPPPPPP.

After giving the fingers to a vanload of travellers who dared cut him off, mounting a kerb and driving on the path to overtake a man on his left-hand side and frightening the life out of him before rolling down the window and shouting, ‘You shouldn’t be on the road!’ he relaxed into the drive.

‘So anyway, you and Davey?’ he said.

Marjorie groaned. ‘There is no me and Davey.’

‘Ah, keep on lying to yourself if you want, no skin off my back.’

‘I’m not lying to myself. We’ve had sex a few times over the years, that’s it.’ She was lying. They had kissed in the grounds of the hospice as her best friend lay dying. What the hell is wrong with us?

‘All right,’ he said, in a really patronising way.

‘Don’t say it like you know better than me.’