The children ran out of the school and down the cinder path to the sound of a brass bell being rung between the boys’ and the girls’ entrances. Angela was surprised to see Tommy standing by the gate.

‘Da, what are you doing here?’ She clutched her composition book in one hand and her hat in the other. Her long pigtails hung down her back and the pink ribbons, which had been neatly tied into perfect bows that morning, trailed limp and straight down over her shoulders. It struck Tommy in that instant that she had Kitty’s eyes. Kitty, his Kitty, harmed by a priest, at the hands of another man in authority. A frisson of anger ran down his spine.

‘Where is Mr Cleary, queen?’

‘He’s there, Da, ringing the bell.’

Tommy looked up and saw a small, stocky, red-faced man, holding a brass bell by a wooden handle and ringing it for all it was worth. Tommy frowned, pulled his cap down tight onto his scalp and in a tone harsher and gruffer than was normal, said, ‘Get the kids, Angela. Don’t be asking me any questions and take them up to Liam’s van, he’s waiting. Get out of here.’

Mr Cleary had spotted Tommy and the ringing of the bell lost its pace and ferocity. The news of Harry and how desperately ill he had been had soon reached the ears of everyone around. Tommy walked slowly and purposefully towards his target as his eyes met that of yet another man in a position of trust who had harmed one of his children and his gaze never left the defiant face of his son’s abuser.

‘Da…’ Angela’s voice trembled; she sensed danger and didn’t like it one bit. She was aware that, one by one, the children had stopped screaming and shouting and the cinder yard fell silent.

‘Who is that?’ a voice called out.

‘It’s Harry’s da,’ came the reply.

‘What are you wanting?’ Mr Cleary shouted.

Tommy didn’t reply as a sea of children parted to let him through. His fingers closed over the large penknife in his pocket. He had taken a knife to a man before. A priest. A man who had defiled his daughter, and he had taken his life. And every day since he had repented in his own private prayer. He had never been really sorry. The community of the four streets had gathered around and protected him and his family. They had paid the worst price imaginable. The dark days. The worst days, the days they had run away from to a place where another man had harmed one of his children.

The curiously intent children before him stumbled backwards, faces fearful as a murmur rippled through the yard. He extracted the knife from his pocket and, with one gesture, flicked it fully open and the blade glinted in the sunlight.