Matty would hang out at the Prince Charles Cinema in the centre of town, where the tickets were dirt cheap and the seats sloped up to the screen. War or action films, old Westerns, a bucket of salted popcorn and an arm round the sweet Welsh skateboarding girl who’d been in London on holiday. ‘Your eyes are minty,’ she’d said, before the lights went down. ‘I could eat them.’

Now, the sound of gunfire mixed with the throb of the music downstairs. No eleven o’clock closing time here. They were actually playing the Blues Brothers now, the party group belting out ‘Sweet Home Chicago’ in seven different keys at once.

On the TV, the German Panzers rolling across the bridge were on fire, their soldiers still shooting. A British sniper getting a bullet in his arm. Joe used to repeat Sean Connery’s lines exaggeratedly, like a drunk, contrast it with the clipped posh-cockney of Michael Caine, and say that Matty could do a far more convincing Polish accent than Gene Hackman.

A bridge and a bridge and a bridge, the film lumbering on, the British generals doggedly moving forwards, keeping on.

Keep on. But there were no more J. Ronans. Ireland, blank of them.

No Joes, the raincoated old woman had said. Plenty of Maureens.

She’d always sent cards at Christmas, Joe’s sister. Auntie Maureen, though Matty had never had a chance to call her that, having never met her. Joe seemed to want to leave his family behind even then. Maybe she could tell Matty something. If nothing else, she’d be family.

Matty got up, put the hoodie back on, and went downstairs to the corner of the pub with some coins. Phoned Heather and put a finger in the other ear, not making eye contact with any of the drinkers.

‘Hello? Who’s this?’ Heather sounded suspicious.

‘Mate. It’s Matty. Sorry it’s late.’

‘S’all right. Just locked up. Where are you? That sounds like fucking hell on earth.’

‘Yeah, basically.’

‘Still alive, then?’

‘You not getting my postcards?’

‘Yeah, I got them. Stuck them all up on the fridge, innit. If you had a bleedin’ mobile phone I’d know where you were.’ The sound of Heather sucking at her top lip. ‘Found him yet?’

‘Not yet. Listen, I’ve not got much change. Could you do me a favour?’

A martyred sigh, and the blurred sound of Val in the background. ‘Go on, then. Anything for you, angel.’

Chapter 5

‘Morning. Message for you. The lady said you’d know what it meant.’

Matty had woken to blood, too much of it, bubbling between both thighs. Scrubbed the pants in the sink, the water icy, a wad of tissues stuffed down there for now. Downstairs, the guy behind the bar had nodded at the local paper. At the top of the sport section was a name, written in capital letters: MAUREEN MAUGHAN. Followed by the words No Address.