The opposite. It was the first proper home-cooked meal in – who knew how long. Years. Matty looked down at the bowl of vegetable stew and rice. Like the cafe in Covent Garden that Heather liked, everyone crammed into the basement, sitting on cushions. This house was a bit like it, pot plants everywhere, rugs and sculptures that looked both Eastern and medieval. ‘It’s really nice.’ A gesture towards the throat. ‘Just hurts.’

‘You poor thing.’ She took the dish away. ‘I should have made soup.’

The rest of the day was spent in bed, shivering, coughing and listening to Brigid move around the house. The faraway sounds of the radio, which moved between long passages of speech and orchestral music.

Every time Matty tried to sleep, he was there, his breath close. If not that, then the sound of every passing car, no matter how far off, was enough.

In the middle of the night, after going to the kitchen to get some more ice, Matty opened the front door and looked out at the garage and the foggy night.

Shifty had to be cleaned. Tomorrow. Tomorrow Matty would leave, one way or the other.

***

In the morning, Matty couldn’t speak.

‘How are you?’ Brigid was packing a satchel bag with some papers on the kitchen table. The TV was on behind them in the living room, the news just starting.

A cracked whisper.

Brigid looked over again, her hand in her bag. She was wearing a long peasant skirt and purple woollen tights that matched her jumper. ‘Blimey. That’s not sounding good.’

Cough. Another go. A scraping croak.

‘Don’t. Don’t try.’ She took in a brisk, assessing breath. ‘Well, I’m not surprised. You were sounding terrible enough already.’ She put her satchel on her shoulder. ‘I’ve got to get off for school. You’ll make—’ she suddenly stilled, looking towards the TV.

Matty turned to see an image of police tape on a country road. A woman standing with a large microphone, the wind slapping her hair against her face. A small red car, its bonnet crumpled into a tree. The driver’s door open. The words formed into recognisable shapes slowly. Roadside. Bog. Dead.

Brigid went and stood behind the sofa, watching the screen intently.

There were police, gardaí, in high-vis jackets, one holding the lead of a sooty Alsatian. A woman in a white boiler suit and blue gloves carried a large yellow case. The road was just a track with grass growing in the centre.

A man in his twenties. Died in suspicious circumstances. The local Gardaí will not say more at this time. Inquiries are ongoing. A shot of a village sign.

Dale’s expression in the van. Almost hurt, as if insulted by someone dear to him. His hand, touching his side, brought up to his eyes.

The reporter kept tugging a lock of hair out of her mouth.

Died.