He scratched his neck and seemed to blush. ‘I had to go to Dublin for a few things.’

A subtle, welling warmth in Matty’s chest. ‘Thank you.’

‘You’re OK.’

There was a moment in which the air felt alive, atomised, before he reached for the remote. ‘Right. Let’s cut these boys off in their prime.’

Die Hard was on the other side, a third of the way through. ‘Hallelujah,’ he said, reaching for the box of chocolates. ‘Class.’

It was. They both knew this one well, too, reacting before the quips or the next violent action came, Cormac quoting once or twice.

Matty had always both lusted after and wanted to be John McClane, grubby vest, glassed feet and all. ‘Do you like war films?’

‘I like all films,’ he said. ‘Except horror films. I’m not so good with the scary ones.’ Cormac was halfway through his fourth beer, his elbow next to Matty’s. He’d slipped down so that they mirrored each other’s slouching position in the middle of the sofa, his head not quite touching the curls.

He didn’t know. It was a relief to hang out with a guy again. He was pretty sweet, really, with the CD and everything. Giggly. Total lightweight. He didn’t know.

Cormac was gazing at Matty’s leg-hair. Matty sat up straighter and the movement startled him out of it. He blushed and faced the screen again.

There was something so different about him compared to his sister. None of the confidence Brigid had so quickly assumed about everything between them. Her almost parental sense of control.

It made Matty want to be honest, open, too. Partly. ‘Can I ask you something?’

He looked back over, a suspended moment. Face far too close. The bird’s egg freckles on his nose. ‘Of course.’ He swallowed. Didn’t seem to be breathing.

Just say it. ‘Can you find missing people?’ The words were dry, bare as bone. ‘I mean, people who aren’t in the phone book?’

In an instant, his expression had righted itself. ‘Depends. Who’s missing?’ A puzzled smile.

Each moment seemed to be slowing. The explosions on the TV becoming a muted blur. ‘My dad.’

If he was surprised, he managed to conceal it. ‘Right. How long’s he been gone?’

‘Fourteen years. He’s – he might be only missing to me.’

‘Fourteen years?’

Chin down. No tears. ‘Yeah.’

‘What’s his name?’

‘Joe. Ronan.’

‘And he’s here? In Ireland, I mean?’

‘I don’t know.’ A tiny laugh that was only breath and a bitten lip. ‘I don’t know any more.’

‘Have you a photo of him?’

Matty went to get it. From 1984, practically a watercolour through age and having lived in various wallets for so long. He was in a T-shirt that had a cowboy and cacti on it, holding barbecue tongs in one hand and laughing.

‘Handsome fella.’