He’d only been in jeans and a T-shirt – he’d have been cold. Had it taken long? Had it taken until dawn?

Matty rose, walked gingerly around the house, wrist held uselessly. Found bin bags under the sink in the kitchen and put the blood-encrusted clothes in them. Perhaps they should be incinerated, but someone might see the smoke.

There was a black bag in the outside bin already, tied only loosely. Inside were wads of kitchen towel and two cloths, all a mottled, pale pink. Fine shards of brown beer bottle glass. Brigid had already cleaned the van. Matty carefully tied the bag up again and put the new one on top. Shut the lid.

From the living room you could see the dark end of the lough, the one with the little girl, and mountains opposite. Rain dragging over the tops.

Standing up hurt. Sitting hurt. On carefully moving to the sofa, one of the cushions suddenly moved with record-stratch yowl. A sharp pain. An imperious-looking cat, huge and rust-coloured, gave a flash of glassy green eyes before it jumped off and stalked away.

Three small, raised lines along a forearm to add to the other injuries. Matty turned the TV on, stared at bland daytime shows from under an itchy woollen blanket covered with ginger fur, one finger repeatedly coming up to touch the dressings on the cheekbone and eyebrow. The raw lip. Tried to take those deep breaths, pushing through the charge of pain and the liquid rattle. Desperately wanted a fag.

The next morning, Matty listened to Brigid’s car rumble into life, the engine fade. She had returned in the early evening with co-codamol, left them by the bed. Matty had stayed hidden in the single room, pretended to be asleep, not dared to face her. All night there had been thoughts of stealing the car, driving to Dublin or Belfast or Derry, but with the sprained wrist – ligament damage, Brigid had said, pointing to a page in her book – changing gears would be impossible. She might have reported the theft even if it had been possible, hurt that the help had been thrown back at her. She might have reported everything.

There was a bike in the garage. Probably not much more doable. Matty stared at the road map again, looking for train stations. None for thirty miles. It hurt just walking around the house. It hurt to breathe. A finger trailed up to the Ros-villages, known almost by heart now. They were so close. To have come all this way over not to know if Joe might be there.

Maybe it was safest here, for now.

Chapter 8