‘It gets worse. She was fifteen. She’d been one of Bridge’s first pupils, top year, a few years before. And one of her projects as well. She gets them sometimes, ones she can’t quite’ – the briefest of thoughtful glances to Matty – ‘leave in the classroom, you know? Always the ones with the crap lives, the dads who beat their mammies up or what have you. She always takes them under her wing. And anyways, he had the gall to tell Bridge about it and then say he wasn’t leaving her, that it had just been a mistake. That he wouldn’t have anything to do with the young one or her baby, which just made the whole thing worse, you know? Because the girl was doing well at school, worked at the shop on weekends for extra spending money, planning for university, and he goes and does that.’ He jammed an elbow on the arm of the sofa and scratched his head violently. ‘Ah, God. Anyways. What a tool.’

‘What did Brigid do?’

‘Kicked him out, obviously. Went on a mad travelling spree and brought back the crap that’s now all over the house.’ He smiled. ‘Don’t tell her I told you all that. She’ll roast me alive in one of her tagines. Extra cumin.’

A zipping-mouth-shut action. ‘All right.’

He looked at Matty’s lips. For too long.

Cormac had got up, mumbling something about the bathroom. When he came back, he tossed a small thin package, wrapped in the local newspaper, onto the sofa. ‘Happy Christmas and all that.’ He was standing with one hand behind his back.

Matty looked up, more pleased than was appropriate. It was obviously a CD. The wrapping came off. The airbrushed, near-alien heads of five beautiful boys on the front.

‘Um. Thanks.’

‘Well, I’ve got to school you. Especially seeing as now you’re Irish and all that. These lads are the thing.’ He nodded towards the TV, where the same group were all dressed in white, sitting on stools. ‘Christmas Number One.’

‘I didn’t get you anything.’ Because you’re the copper who’s looking for me.

He bent his head, a hand in his pocket, grinned at the floor. ‘It’s just a joke, really.’ He brought out another square from behind his back, and sat down as he passed it over.

‘Is this one Boyzone, then?’

‘Maybe.’

It wasn’t, though. It was Cypress Hill, the cover featuring a garish, helmeted skull and tattoo-style lettering.

‘I tried to find the filthiest-looking one,’ he said. ‘You know, explicit content, skulls, weird Spanish titles. It’s not long come out, so I thought that maybe you didn’t have it.’ He shifted. ‘It is all right?’

‘Yeah. It is. They really sell this, locally?’

‘Jesus, no. I had to go to Dublin.’

‘You went to Dublin for …?’ Me, Matty wanted to say. ‘For this?’