On another day, Anton might have been tempted to fling the tea into the big dog-like grinning face, watch with pleasure as the cup bounced off the meaty snout. But he has been lonely since his release, the deep silence of the house making his days seem long and empty. It’s good to have some company, even if it’s only his parole officer. He sips his tea while Jim Buckley takes a seat at the table opposite him and consults his clipboard, slurping from the cup.

‘Let’s run through this, shall we?’

‘If we must,’ Anton says. He gives the man the bare minimum of his attention, just sufficient to oblige the bureaucracy. He wonders a little at Jim Buckley, at his life. A small two-bed semi in Blanchardstown or Tallaght, he surmises, a few paltry sticks of furniture, a big-screen TV, no clutter – the minimalist look he so reveres. No ring on his finger so let’s assume no girlfriend or family. Lives near to his mum. A few older sisters with families close by. Spends his Sundays alternating between their houses – roast dinners and playing with the kiddies. Their favourite uncle. Such a cheery disposition – but what lurks beneath it? Anton wonders. He knows how fractured things can be once you peel back the happy surface.

‘Given any thought to employment, Anton?’

‘Not really.’

‘I see here you’re a numbers man. A bit of a whizz at the old accounting.’

‘If you say so.’

‘Why don’t you let me put you in touch with a recruitment agency we use from time to time? See if they have a position that would suit a man with your background?’

Anton doesn’t know if by ‘background’ Jim is referring to his previous career as an accountant or his criminal record. He doesn’t seek to clarify because it’s not relevant. He has no intention of contacting any recruitment agency. Not now. Not ever.

What kind of person becomes a parole officer? He’s had the same thoughts about the screws in prison. As little boys, did they answer, when asked by a teacher or a relative what they wanted to be when they grew up, ‘I want to work for the prison service’?

Mark wanted to be a vet. Anton remembers a painting coming home from school, some rudimentary daubs in primary colours that they were supposed to interpret as their six-year-old son with his animal patients. Charlotte had held it in one hand and laughed. ‘Mark? A vet?’ She had shaken her head, mystified. ‘The poor little pet’s frightened of his own shadow.’ Right there at that sink. Anton half turns his head to look, as if he might expect to find her there still.

‘How’s the social side of things?’ Jim Buckley asks. ‘You been getting out much, Anton?’

‘A little.’

‘Any old friends you been catching up with? Relatives?’