‘I bet it was a murder.’ A delicious curl in the centre of the word.

‘I didn’t hear about it.’ Fumbling for a cigarette.

‘Not here, but further up at _____.’

‘Right.’

‘If I was a detective, I could find out who did it.’

‘Who d’you think did it?’

‘A bad man.’ The soldiers had disappeared behind a line of trees. ‘Do you think I’m right? That a bad man did it?’

A long inhale, too long. ‘Yeah.’

‘You shouldn’t smoke them.’ Sheanna was looking sidelong at the cigarette.

‘Says who?’

‘My daddy. He says smoking is for very silly people who only have half a brain. For eedjits.’

Matty gave the slightest of nods. Stubbed it out.

Sheanna grinned and then looked seriously at the lough. ‘I wish I was a mermaid. Then I could be dangerous.’

‘Why would you want to be dangerous?’

‘Bullies,’ she said. She looked out at the lough, and then at her knuckles, which were red. ‘It’s cold. I’m going indoors.’

***

The warmth of the house was nullifying. Matty moved sluggishly round the house. Watered the plants, watching the soil darken and bubble. Took even longer baths. Went back to aspirin instead of co-codamol. Started reading the novels on the shelves, at least the slimmer ones, which seemed to please Brigid. Called Heather once, though she’d sounded harassed and distracted. Thought about calling Nonna. Didn’t.

The mornings were dark, the afternoons too. Matty had begun to memorise the mountains opposite, each groove made by water and trees, and charted from day to day the tiny dot of an adventurous sheep straying too high. Began to know how long it would take for rain to come by the pace and heaviness of clouds, that the grassy sunlight was only going to last minutes.

Something in Matty had stagnated. The tiredness kept coming in waves, not just the impact of the injuries, and the guilt, but an exhaustion from long ago. Always moving – camp to camp, room to room, sofa to sofa. It was warm in Brigid’s house, a reassuring tick of the radiators, and there was homecooked food. It felt good to sit, and be still. It felt safe.

Nice to be attractive, accepted, too. Matty had started wearing less. It was hot enough. Just oversized vests and tracksuit bottoms, no sports bra – keeping those ribs alive. The eczema patch was shrinking, more than it did normally. Brigid would look, eyes wide for a moment before she blinked and returned to her chores. Some people liked the small swagger, the boyish thing. The girl at the shop maybe did.

‘You don’t half remind me of someone,’ Brigid said on the sofa, some historical show on. ‘I’ve been trying to work it out.’

‘Who?’

‘Someone off the telly or something. Some matinée idol.’ She cast a sly, flirtatious look over.

An almost-blush. ‘Hardly.’ Folded arms to emphasise the biceps, looking at the screen.