‘I’d like to go and see her parents tomorrow, maybe see if Julie can come, too. I want them to know they aren’t alone in this.’ I pulled back from him and looked in his eyes, tried to read his face.

He nodded, tilted his head to the left slightly. ‘Hmmm, as long as you don’t feel they’d be too overwhelmed, you know, with loads of people arriving at the door.’

‘We all grew up together. We were in and out of each other’s houses as if they were our own. We’re not just “people” showing up for a look at their misery, you know.’

I was being sharp with him again. I knew it and I hated myself for it, but I wondered at how little he actually understood me. How could he not know I’d need to be there, with them? How was it that he no longer seemed to understand me at all?

‘That’s not what I meant,’ he said wearily.

‘I know, I’m sorry,’ I replied, deflated. The moment between us was gone. The closeness of our hug shattered. ‘I’m tired,’ I told him again and he moved to allow me space to lie down.

‘I’m going to watch TV for a bit,’ he said, leaving me alone in the darkness of our room.

Thursday, 7 June

Chapter Eight

Rachel

The following morning felt just as surreal as the previous day. We tried to keep things light as we got Molly ready for daycare, even though I wasn’t going to work. I couldn’t face it. I wouldn’t have been able to concentrate even if I was there. My sleep had been terrible, broken and filled with nightmares, and my head was thumping. Still, I wanted to keep things as normal as possible for Molly.

I threw back two paracetamol with my morning cup of coffee while Paul helped Molly into her favourite sandals. Beth was still asleep, having cried herself to sleep the night before. I’d already texted Julie and told her I’d call round after I dropped Molly off. We’d head to Clare’s parents from there.

It was something I felt I needed to do, but it wasn’t something I particularly relished. I was scared to see their grief up close. But there was something innate in that Irish-ness of having to be helpful following a death, how we could all spring into action, making sandwiches and tea, leading mourners through the house to view the remains and offer condolences.

There was no floral wreath or black ribbon on the door of the Taylors’ house, but the blinds were closed – more, I guessed, to try to ward off any intrusive members of the press than anything else.