The sheets were grey and smelled of illness. He tucked them on to the bed and then the blankets. He shook the pillows and a couple of feathers drifted down on to the floor. The old man sat all the while muttering to himself and coughing.

‘I said to them …’

‘Come on. Get in.’

‘You’ll have to give me a hand. I’ve stiffened up with the cold.’

He hated to touch the old man. He was always afraid that his fingers would sink through the soft, mouldering skin.

‘Substance.’ He said it for courage and put a hand under his father’s elbow.

‘What’s that?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Bloody British murderers, get out of this country, I said.’

‘You’re lucky they didn’t take you away with them.’

He heaved and the old man came up on to his feet.

‘That’s what I said anyway. They could have shot me and I wouldn’t have cared.’

Neither would I, only the mess would have been terrible.

They moved slowly to the bed and he pushed his father down on to it.

‘There.’

‘I’m cold.’

‘So am I. Mam and I were out in the street for ages.’

‘That’s what I said to them. They didn’t like it, I can tell you that.’

He fell back against the pillows and began to cough. Joe covered him with the bedclothes and picking up the school bag left the room. He closed the door behind him.

‘Is he all right?’ she called up to him.

‘He’s all right.’

He pictured her still standing there with the flower pot in her hand, the crumpled skin of her face grey. It wasn’t love he felt when he thought of her, only a kind of exasperated pity.

He waded through the mess on his bedroom floor and sat down on Brendan’s bed, his bed. He put the bag down beside him. He was too tired to think about anything. Tomorrow, he thought as he bent down and picked up a pillow from the floor and a couple of blankets. Tomorrow. He wrapped the blankets round himself and the school bag. He didn’t care what anyone said about which bed he slept in. Tomorrow. He fell asleep.

She had to wake him. Shaking at his shoulder, pulling and plucking at his pyjamas. Suddenly his eyes were open and he was looking at her. She looked as if she hadn’t been to bed at all.

‘You’re nearly late. Get up. I thought you’d never wake.’

She kept a grip on his shoulder as if to prevent him from falling back into sleep again.

‘Yes.’

‘What in the name of God have you your schoolbag in there for?’

‘I didn’t want to forget it,’ he said stupidly. He remembered what was in it. His head began to worry. She gave a final shake at his shoulder.

‘Your breakfast’s waiting.’

‘I’ll be down.’