“They all used to fancy Shay,” Kevin said, grinning. “When I was coming up, I got all my practice off girls who couldn’t get their hands on Shay.”

Da said, “Little whoremasters, the lot of yous.” I think he meant it in a nice way.

“And look at the state of him now,” Ma said. “Mandy married a lovely fella from New Street, she’s Mandy Brophy now; they’ve two young ones, and a car. That could’ve been our Shay, if he’d bothered his arse. And you, young fella”—she aimed her fork at Kevin—“you’ll end up the same way as him if you don’t watch yourself.”

Kevin concentrated on his plate. “I’m grand.”

“You’ll have to settle down sooner or later. You can’t be happy forever. What age are you now?”

Being left out of this particular salvo was a little disturbing; not that I felt neglected, but I was starting to wonder about Jackie’s mouth again. I asked, “Does Mandy still live around here? I should call in to her, while I’m about.”

“Still in Number Nine,” Ma said promptly. “Mr. and Mrs. Cullen have the bottom floor, Mandy and the family have the other two. So she can look after her mammy and daddy. She’s a great girl, Mandy is. Brings her mammy to her appointment at the clinic every Wednesday, for her bones, and the one on Friday for—”

At first all I heard was a faint crack in the steady rhythm of the rain, somewhere away up the Place. I stopped listening to Ma. Footsteps splashing closer, more than one set; voices. I put down my knife and fork and headed for the window, fast (“Francis Mackey, what in God’s name are you at?”), and after all this time Nora Daly still walked just like her sister.

I said, “I need a bin liner.”

“You haven’t eaten what I cooked for you,” Ma snapped, pointing her knife at my plate. “You sit down there and finish that.”

“I’ll have it later. Where do you keep the bin liners?”

Ma had all her chins tucked in, ready for a fight. “I don’t know what way you live these days, but under my roof you won’t waste good food. Eat that and then you can ask me again.”

“Ma, I don’t have time for this. That’s the Dalys.” I pulled open the drawer where the bin liners used to live: full of folded lacy God-knowswhats.

“Shut that drawer! Acting like you live here—”

Kevin, smart boy, had his head right down. “What makes you think the Dalys want to see your ugly mug?” Da wanted to know. “They probably think this is all your fault.”

“—strolling in like Lord Muck—”