The man was still there, in the kitchen. Matty had waited ages, sitting on the bed underneath a towel, and yet there was the exchange of voices again, Brigid’s and the lower one in an occasional tag-team, and the sounds of cupboards opening and shutting. Plates.

He had seen everything. One leg hooked over the bath handle, eyes shut under the water. All the bruises.

The smell of food came inching along the corridor. Matty, who hadn’t eaten all day, let the towel fall around both shoulders and rubbed a hand through the half-dry curls. Stood up.

Brigid was leaning down, her head practically in the oven, which was humming. She was speaking loudly to be heard over the radio. ‘It’s always the same. No one can keep anything to themselves. Matty.’ Her voice had suddenly changed direction, a touch higher, brighter. She straightened. ‘This is my brother, Cormac.’

The man was standing in the corner of the kitchen holding a glass of juice. The one from the family photos. Taller and thinner than Brigid, with the same thick eyebrows, black hair and bone-blue eyes. More freckles. ‘Hello,’ he said in a warily neutral voice, the word tipping up just a little at the end. A voice that gave no indication that he had walked in on Matty with a fist shoved between both thighs.

‘Hello.’ The word croaked more than intended.

‘I was wondering if you two would meet,’ Brigid folded her arms. ‘He’s always round,’ she said. ‘You’d think that by thirty, he might have learnt to cook a meal or two.’ Her tone was darkly teasing.

Cormac shifted and drank from his glass, before eyeing it. ‘Not much time for recipes, Bridge.’

‘I know, I know,’ she said, drawing a tea towel out from its holder. ‘Always the martyr. Well, sit down, then,’ she said, with mock exasperation. ‘If you want anything to eat.’

It didn’t get any less awkward. Brigid filled the room with words for all three of them, while Cormac gave the odd reply and seemed mostly engrossed in his food, apart from an occasional careful look at Matty, not quite a frown. He had a patch of white hair behind one ear, as if he’d had a freak electric shock or been the victim of a lightning strike. His elbows stuck out either side of his plate, hard protrusions against his jumper. Stubble that suggested he usually shaved but hadn’t got round to it. A CD of exotic-sounding jazz was playing in the living room, a man wailing as if the world was ending.

Cormac scraped up a last forkful of ratatouille and sat back in his seat, using Brigid’s tea towel to wipe the side of his mouth. ‘So,’ he said, making eye contact for the first time since the bathroom. ‘You’re a friend of Bridge’s, then?’

Matty swallowed a mouthful of aubergine.