Sunlight sparkled on the water in the harbour like handfuls of strewn stars, and little boats gently bobbed up and down, their masts chinking in the breeze. Imelda, Esther and Henry sat outside the pub in Baltimore, County Cork, admiring the view. The trip to Cillian’s hometown had been a birthday present from Imelda’s friends, and Esther and Henry had volunteered to accompany her while Mabel stayed at home and kept an eye on Sparrow, Treasure and Billie. Imelda had never been to Baltimore. She had always planned to, but her plans had never come to fruition. Until now. She had never met any of Cillian’s family or even visited his grave. She had written to his mother shortly after his death and had received a polite but brief reply. She worried that she had been presumptuous; that their relationship had been too short-lived to justify any claim of grief or kinship on her part. But now, finally, she was here in the place where Cillian had been born and raised. She could see the beacon that he had told her about up on the headland. Lot’s Wife, the locals called it, after the biblical woman who turned into a pillar of salt. It looked like a fat, white skittle.

‘Are you ready?’ Henry asked her. ‘Or would you like another drink first? Dutch courage,’ he teased.

Imelda drained her glass and stood up. ‘I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.’

Esther and Henry walked her the short distance from the pub to the gate of a terraced house with a green door that overlooked the entrance to the harbour. Its tiny front garden was full of pots brimming with daisies and geraniums. Henry and Esther ushered her through the gate and then waited while she rang the doorbell. As soon as the door opened, they turned and walked away. Imelda felt sick with excitement and sick with fear that she had travelled all this way and might be met with bewilderment or worse still, hostility. The woman at the door was in her late sixties and Imelda knew from her Facebook profile that she had been christened Fionnuala after her great-granny, but everyone called her Nuala. She was married to James O’Riley, had four children, nine grandchildren and two wire-haired dachshunds. She enjoyed gardening, cooking, and music by The Pogues and was a massive Peaky Blinders fan. She was also Cillian Byrne’s baby sister. She had his eyes. She smiled at Imelda expectantly.

‘I’m sorry to just turn up like this, but I’m visiting the area with friends and I just wanted to say “hello” while I was here . . .’ Imelda’s words trailed away uncertainly.

‘Right,’ said the woman, still smiling. ‘And will you be saying hello to everyone in Baltimore?’