The lough had revealed itself this morning, a vast expanse dotted with islands, some bearing churches according to the faded visitor’s information. The large granite steps of the quayside were obviously there for boats, but the place was deserted. Matty headed for the island with the sixth-century monastery, though it was too boggy to get onto it, the mud sucking dangerously. A glimpse of two ruined buildings, dappled and roofless. The shortest pause for breath, to stop the muscles thickening with the cold, and then back to the quayside, Shifty’s mustard colour a motivating flag. A handful of water scooped up before stepping out. It tasted cool, peaty, granular.

The wet things were hung on a pale broken branch. Matty clutched the plastic cup of tea like a votive, the heater on, and spread the map across the steering wheel. The electricity of the lough coursing through each vein.

This would be it. Faith. Substance.

***

‘Fuck’s sake.’

The sign stuck out of the grass, a few kilometres north-west of Athlone.

JOHN EDWARD RONAN, Landscape Gardener.

‘Fuck.’ Matty squatted, pushing a fist into the damp pavement.

‘Can I help you?’ A lady with a mane of grey hair and an ankle-length raincoat was coming along the road with a carrier bag in each hand, turning into the driveway where Matty stood. She sounded open, concerned.

‘No.’ Matty stood, jammed a thumbnail between two front teeth, and out again. Remembered how to be courteous. ‘Sorry. I was looking for Joe Ronan.’ It sounded stupid, even to say it.

‘Girl or boy?’

‘What?’ Too tired to fight it.

‘As in, is that a girl or boy?’ she said, the lines drawn in her face, though she didn’t look unkind. ‘With an “e” or without?’

‘Oh. Boy,’ Matty said, the word dry and cracked. Boy, man, father, absent. Why hast thou forsaken me.

‘Ah, what am I saying now,’ the lady said. ‘I don’t know any girl-Jos or boy-Joes. Is it Seán you’re after?’ White strands of her hair rose up on her shoulders.

‘Just Joseph. Or – Maureen?’ It was daft to ask. They were travellers. They didn’t set down anywhere. They didn’t have addresses. Did they?

The woman let out a long, melodious sigh, as if she’d been set a delicious riddle. ‘Not if it’s Ronan as the surname, no. I know plenty of Maureens.’

‘It’s all right. Cheers.’

Matty went back to the van, the lady’s rising, falling hall-oh cut off sharply as the front door shut behind her. Sat in silence, before administering one swift punch with the side of a fist into the driver’s door.

Forget it. Forget him. He’d forgotten his child, after all.

***