‘Yes, in your gym all the time, and your swimming. Look at those muscles.’ She’d reached over, prodded at an upper arm, until Matty had shrugged her away. ‘You want to go on World’s Strongest Man?’ A sour laugh.

‘You’re drunk.’

‘Of course you do.’ She leant down to the carpet for the wine bottle and sloppily poured more into her glass, shaking her head.

‘You should stop.’ Matty got up, went towards the kitchen. ‘I’ll make a cup of tea.’

‘Who are you to tell me what to do, hmm? You are still young. Still growing.’ She raised her voice as Matty put the kettle on in the kitchen. ‘It will change. You will grow out of it. That is what I tell myself. So that I do not feel ashamed.’ Her voice rose. ‘You are my daughter. You hear me? My daughter.’ Matty had slipped out, leaving the kettle boiling.

Neither of them talked as Cormac ate, the cutlery grating against the china, his jaw working. He seemed in lower spirits than on previous visits. Perhaps he always needed Brigid to spar with.

He scraped up the last piece of potato and put his plate on the table near Matty’s feet. ‘Well, it’s better than the microwaved meal waiting for me at home.’ He sat back again. ‘You probably think I should be seeing my mother,’ he said.

‘None of my business.’

He spoke to the screen. ‘The job wipes me out. I love it, but I haven’t got the space in my head to do the visits as much as Bridge does. She doesn’t even bloody recognise me. She thinks I’m her brother, or her first boyfriend, which is a lot worse. The stuff she’s said to me. Mother of God.’ He glanced over again. His eyes were that same arctic blue, but they seemed to be looking for reassurance. ‘You think I should be there.’

‘I don’t think anything. My mum was mental. I mean, not like yours, but – shit, sorry. I didn’t mean that.’

He just grinned, freckles gathering together on his cheek. ‘Not a bother. She is mental. Here’s to the pair of them.’ He clinked the neck of his second beer with Matty’s empty one on the table.

‘Didn’t see you as Italian.’

He was on his third beer now, and the box of chocolate liqueurs he’d foraged was nearly empty. Christmas cake devoured. Matty had relinquished control of the TV remote, and Cormac had been commenting drily on all the things he flicked between.

‘Half-Italian. Half-Irish.’

Cormac almost spat out his beer. ‘Seriously? Didn’t see you as that, either.’ Matty raised both eyebrows enough to make a question of it. ‘You’re a cockney sparrow, aren’t you? Cock-ney sparra,’ he said again, an appalling attempt at an accent. He sounded looser, the beer starting to work on him.