On the way to the car, she’d stepped off the pavement and gone down on her arse on the ice. Gerry, in his ­post-­scrap stupor, had come to life, clapping and chanting, ‘Get up, Pell, get up, Pell,’ as she rocked back and forth. Nick had let this performance go for thirty seconds before lifting a boot and, glancing Gerry’s knee, sending him clattering against the bonnet of a nearby car. Nick had not offered Pell a hand, because Pell would not have taken an offered hand. Instead, he’d grabbed her under her armpits and hauled her to her feet. ‘Leggo,’ she’d growled.

Nick watched the road. It was disorienting to be away from work at this hour. The afternoon sky was swamped with clouds, and the glare made the linings of his eyelids ache, all that dazzle piled to the low brink of the horizon.

‘Bambi on ice,’ he said again.

Pell acted tough. She was a bunched slip of a thing with a mouth that got vicious real fast. With her hackles up, she was liable to go for anyone. Whenever she came out with an exceptionally cutting remark, Nick wanted to take her in his arms and tell her, Your mammy and your daddy would be so proud.

‘Don’t be sulking, Bambi,’ Nick said, laughing, and went to pet her brow.

‘Prick off,’ Pell said, and swung at his shoulder.

Without taking his eyes off the road, Nick grabbed her wrist and turned her limb towards her until he had Pell’s head pinned to the passenger window. Pell had a tiny fucking head for a ­sixteen-­year-­old human, Nick thought, and laughed as he felt its diminutive shape vibrate where it was trapped. Her free hand slapped at his braced arm. But up until he relinquished his ­grip – he wasn’t hurting ­her – Pell’s jaw remained taut, and she fumed through her nose but said no word, refused to beg to be let go.

He slowed the car to a crawl in the yard, arced around, and, without waiting for the Vectra to come to a stop, the two opened their doors and timed their leaps clear. He completed the circle, watched them in the mirror. He bipped the horn. Neither looked back at him.

Swanlon and his dog were standing at the gate of his house. Swanlon put out a claw, held it there. Nick pulled up.

‘How’s young Munnelly?’ Swanlon said, his nostrils plugged with silvery, unkempt hair.

‘Sound. You?’

The old man snorted, spat.

‘You not in work?’

‘Heading straight that way now. Had to drop that pair back.’

‘Young Gerry not in school?’

‘School’s not an arrangement he’s enthralled with just now.’

‘The scholarly burdens,’ Swanlon said. ‘He’s a good lad, but.’

‘He is,’ Nick said. ‘When he’s asleep.’