You killed a man. It kept returning, a sudden thought that became a flood. He would have killed you. He might have crashed anyway, drunk driving. No. You killed him. The spreading queasiness and near-panic, instantly drying lips into ridges. It made eating insurmountable until the evening, when Brigid’s chatter would help force it down. Matty imagined telling Rosa. I killed a man. Phoning Heather. I killed a man. Telling Joe.

Distraction. Matty lay in bed staring at hardbacks as heavy as paving slabs, lavish photographic guides to faraway countries, or artist books – Pablo Picasso, Frida Kahlo, Paul Gauguin. Unreal images. Shuffled Brigid’s pack of cards over and over, half the deck in each hand, the rhythmic whirr of the edges. Did the breathing, the rib-pain lessening marginally, and drank hot water and lemon, made sharper with the cider vinegar that Brigid insisted was better than medicine. You killed a man.

Matty kept thinking of the bike. Of driving Shifty in the night, the wrist magically working. And of encountering someone new who might do the same thing. Someone stronger than Dale. You killed him.

The news had talk of a fireball passing over a town in County Carlow. A man and a young boy posing with parts of a stone meteorite, black-grey fragments in their hands. Maybe that mad old bastard was onto something after all. Thirty-four days until the end of the world, in that case. That would be OK.

The bruises changed colour, deepening to violet, plum, and almost black.

Imagined scenarios: going to the Garda station, handcuffs. A faint memory of the blandness of the station in Golders Green. Confessing to an initially uninterested officer at reception, being led to an interview room and read rights. It would look indefensible, the wounds cleaned, reporting it so much later, and only after he was found. Only Matty’s word for it. Brigid charged with something, too.

A women’s prison. Years.

The sky was dusky with rain, the light beginning to go. Matty imagined drawing a pencil line along the low mountain ridge, trying to stay as close as possible to it, no gaps. From the window you could just see the lough, a long swipe over two distant roofs.

‘No one can see you from here,’ said Brigid as she came in. ‘Don’t worry.’

Matty half-turned, bunching fists into both pockets of the hoodie. The hills behind that glimpse of lough had almost completely disappeared into mist now. ‘It’s not that.’ Two nights ago, shutting the bedroom door, Matty almost had a heart attack – a black figure, suspended. Brigid had said later that she had thought the wetsuit might moulder out in the garage. Had put it on a hanger.

She was standing quite close. ‘Are you all right?’

‘No.’ A need to be held by her, to disappear into the softness of her cardigan, her neck, her hair. Unable to ask.

‘It’s OK. It’ll be OK.’