“Do you want to know where we’re going, Dad?” I say.

He hasn’t asked me in ages.

He shakes his head. “Your mother won’t be there, will she?”

“No.” I don’t know why I don’t tell the usual lies. I think it might be because he doesn’t usually couch the question in negative terms. Your mother will be there, won’t she? That’s what he would normally ask.

He chews on his lower lip, the way he used to when he was concentrating, watching a horse race on the telly, or studying the form in the paper.

“Do you think I’ll see her soon?” he says.

I hesitate. “Well...if you believe in, you know...God and heaven and stuff like that...”

“Heaven?”

“Yes. It’s a place you go. Some people believe you go there. When you...die.” Why am I saying that word? Out loud? I don’t want Iris to hear me saying it. And why didn’t I tell Dad what I usually tell him? Instead of talking about death. Talking about what happens after you die, depending on what you believe.

I suddenly realize that I don’t believe. I haven’t for ages. Maybe not ever. Which is funny when you consider that I still go to mass. Not every Sunday, but some Sundays. I still go. So does Brendan. And I have no idea what he believes anymore. Or if he believes anymore.

“I think death is a positive thing,” says Iris, glancing at me from the passenger seat.

“Death?” says Dad, his eyes wide.

“Why on earth would you say that?” I hiss at Iris.

“Sorry,” Iris says. “I just mean, without death, life wouldn’t be so precious, you know? We’d just...exist I suppose.”

“You’re right, Iris,” I say. “Life is precious.” My tone is pointed. Which is not helpful. It must be the effects of last night’s fitful sleep. A night like that would sharpen anyone’s tone.

“I say my three Hail Marys every night in bed,” Dad says.

“Do you, Dad?” This surprises me. That he remembers the words, for starters. He always used to say, Lower me down the mossy bank and that’s a wrap. I never thought he believed in an afterlife. I mean, yes, he went to mass every Sunday with my mother and made sure Hugh and I did too. If we went to a different mass to them, Dad would quiz us when we got home. Who said mass and what the gospel was about and who did Saint Paul write a letter to in the second reading. It was nearly always the Corinthians.

“I don’t want to die,” Dad says in a small voice.

“We’re going to see the white cliffs of Dover, Mr. Keogh,” Iris pipes up then in the bright, breezy voice of distraction.

“Why?”

“Because they’re famous.”

“Why?”

“It’s a detour,” I say, “and afterwards, we’ll be—”

“Detours should be clearly marked to aid the flow of traffic,” Dad says.

“Don’t worry, Dad, I know the way,” I say. Which may not, strictly speaking, be true.