At the Christy Ring Bridge, she pauses, barely, then crosses, weaving her way through the cars. Nobody bothers to hoot. Everyone jaywalks in Cork. At the Half Moon Street opening from Lavitts Quay, she stalls and looks south. She pushes down her hood. Around now, her parents will be watching the nine o’clock news on RTE. They won’t have noticed yet that she’s not in her room. She shuts her eyes and swallows hard. This is it, she thinks, this is the only way.

Walking on, the mist is cool on her face. She breathes through her nose and something like a smile rests briefly on her lips. She snaps open the fasteners of her anorak, methodically, deliberately, one by one. She touches her right hand to the quay wall. The stone feels rough against her skin.

Near the footbridge, she stands and bows her head, breathing as slowly as she can. She hears the blood pulsing in her ears. Then, quickly, she slides her coat off her shoulders. Checking that her bus pass is still in the pocket, she folds the coat carefully and places it on the wall. She takes off her trainers and socks and puts them on top of the anorak. She pulls her sweatshirt over her head and drapes it across the pile.

Barefoot, in black leggings and a thin black T-shirt, she’s ready. She steps on to the stone staircase and descends three steps. On the fourth step, her left foot breaks water. She flinches, but takes another step. There’s something hard and sharp under her feet. She gasps, though what she’s feeling now doesn’t seem like pain.

With the next step, she’s in up to her knees. She has to cling on to the wall to steady herself. But it’s slimy. She takes her hand away for a moment, then grips the side again. When she’s up to her waist, she feels the sway of the river, the size of it. She hears shouts from above. She has been seen. She lets go.

And the current takes her.

1

November 2013

With high tide due at 18.42, I needed to move fast. I saved the document I was working on, logged out and felt around with my feet under my paper-strewn desk. Nothing. I’d forgotten my wellies. Which meant I had to move really fast. The city is built on a bog, and when the tide is high enough, and the rain is heavy enough, and the wind is blowing in the right direction, Cork can do floods better than anywhere else in the country. The streets that once were rivers revert to watery highways, and there’s an eerie beauty to it all, if you don’t have to mop out a flooded shop or dump a sodden carpet. And if you have the right footwear.

‘Shitfuckbollocks,’ I said.