‘I’ve got a couple of places I need to go.’ Get up there, look for Joe, leave.

‘You could, but it’s in the garage from tomorrow. Sorry. It’s been playing up.’ A hand in Matty’s hair. ‘I’m borrowing Jerry’s, my neighbour two doors down, for a few days to get to school. You can borrow it once it’s back on Saturday if you like.’

Four days. ‘OK. Thanks.’ Matty lay there, letting Brigid twist the curls, feeling them tangle. Looked up. ‘Will you cut my hair tomorrow?’

She smiled.

Chapter 10

Matty sat on a chair in the kitchen, bare feet propped on its lowest rung. Grey-brown hair like wood shavings scattered around the floor, and Brigid frowning as she leant close.

‘Well, it’s not a salon,’ she said, holding the clippers. ‘But I think I’ve sorted you out.’ She walked round, scrutinising.

A quick feel of the back, the soft stubble. It was always a bit hard, doing it yourself. ‘Cheers.’

‘My pleasure,’ she said from behind, the back of one finger on Matty’s newly smooth neck, leaning down to kiss it.

A shadow at the back door became Cormac, the door opening noisily.

Brigid straightened. He stood on the mat, taking in the scene, Matty’s bare legs, Brigid’s hand curled. The pause a little too long. ‘How’re you going?’ he said, moving to the sink, an upturned glass picked up from the side, getting the bottle of squash that Brigid always bought for him.

‘Not so bad,’ said his sister, her hand moving to Matty’s upper arm, almost protective.

It didn’t seem right to move yet.

‘I’ll give yours a whirl if you like,’ Brigid said. ‘You’re beginning to look like a thatched roof.’

Cormac didn’t turn from the sink. ‘No, thanks. I’ll stick with the barber’s, if it’s all the same to you. You might scalp me.’

‘No skin off my nose,’ she said.

‘And none off my skull,’ he said, straight back, as he turned round. Like a comedy duo, except neither of them was smiling. The quickest glance over, before he drained his glass.

Matty was having a cigarette and watching the magpies do their tag team when Cormac came out.

He put his hands in his pockets, standing a few feet away. ‘I don’t know what’s going on, but—’ his shoulders were up around his ears. ‘Whatever you’re doing with Bridge, you’ve got the wrong idea.’

‘About what?’ Matty turned away, towards the garden. Praying he didn’t look in the direction of the garage.

‘My sister. She’s not … she was married. She’s not—’

A half-turn back. ‘Not what?’

‘She’s not gay,’ he said, leaning down, the last word a wide-eyed whisper. Scandalised or impressed, it was hard to say.

‘I’m not gay,’ said Matty.