He was never going to be found. Matty had to face it. He left because he didn’t ever want to be found.

In the early evening, there was the sound of the back door opening and closing.

‘Hello?’

Cormac. A sense of relief that it wasn’t Brigid, that somehow she’d decided not to stay in Cork overnight, their mum fine after all.

He stood at the entrance to the living room a few moments later, in his work clothes, holding his jacket in his hands. He took in Matty’s bare legs up on the coffee table, the TV. ‘Did she leave a while ago?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Been on your own?’

Matty held onto both elbows, shoulders drawing inwards. ‘Just me and the cat.’ A weak smile. ‘Um, she said if you came over to say your food was in the fridge.’

‘Right.’ He disappeared.

The squeak of the fridge and the metal scrape of the oven door. There was a brief blast of the radio, a Christmas song played on tin whistles, before Cormac turned it off again.

He came back with two already-opened beers and sat down on the sofa next to Matty, passing one over. ‘Sláinte.’

‘Cheers.’

EastEnders was on, diminishing the homesickness. Even though it was the wrong end of London, it was still nice to hear the accents. ‘D’you want to watch something else?’

‘You’re grand. I’m braindead.’

Matty wasn’t going to ask how his work day had been. Not today.

The episode ended, a bombshell about the pub being sold, and went into an Irish light-entertainment show, everything very loud and very bright.

‘So, you avoiding the family thing as well?’ He was looking over, his beer clutched in his lap. They’d never sat so close together before.

‘I haven’t got any.’

He looked back at the TV. ‘Sorry.’ After a while, he turned his head again. ‘No one?’

‘My grandparents in Italy. We fell out when my mum died.’

‘Right. Sorry to hear that.’ He had a policeman’s frankness. ‘Was that a long time ago?’

‘Seven months.’

‘Ah, Jesus. Was it a sudden thing?’

Flesh, rotting. The smell that hadn’t quite been scrubbed from the house. Bloated belly. ‘She killed herself.’

There was a sudden, perfectly timed shout of laughter from the TV. ‘Right,’ said Cormac. ‘God. Sorry.’ He faced the screen. ‘Were you close, or …?’

‘No. Not close.’

The oven pinged. ‘I’ll just—’ he pointed his thumb over his shoulder. ‘Do you want another beer?’

‘There is more,’ Rosa had said on Boxing Day four years ago. ‘All the leftovers from yesterday.’ A pointed remark, Matty having made excuses for the day before. They had dinner in front of the TV, just like this.

‘I’m full.’

‘You don’t eat enough.’

‘I eat. I just work it off.’