Cormac turned the bedside lamp on and the main light off. Began to unbutton his shirt, stopped. ‘Just a sec.’ He disappeared.

The loudness of the clock, its limping hand. There was that floating sensation again, of being outside the body. The space in Matty’s head where someone should have been saying, You sure about this, crackerjack?

He came back in and put a single condom packet on the bedside table.

‘Did you have this all planned out or something?’

He looked impossibly virtuous. ‘No. You should always be prepared, you know.’ A small, self-conscious smile. ‘It’s been burning a hole in my wallet for six months.’ He sat down.

He wasn’t Dale. He wasn’t like Dale.

Heart, high up. ‘Will you be gentle?’ Voice, high up.

He looked shocked. ‘Of course.’

Matty lay back on the bed with him. Cormac was looking at the boy-pants in fascination, taking them off. T-shirt off. A kiss on the stomach. Higher. Matty pulled the vest down.

‘Sorry,’ he said.

The clock. The sounds of the TV still on down the corridor. He reached for the condom packet.

Bones and skin and muscle. That’s all it would be.

‘No hands.’

‘No hands?’

‘Not there.’

‘OK.’

The van was a minor detail. He didn’t know about the van. He never went into the garage. His arms were rakish, warm, and he smelt of fruit cake and beer.

The pain was immediate. ‘Ow. Fuck.’

‘What? What’s wrong?’ Cormac leant back a little and looked down. ‘Jesus.’ His hand came away with a daub of blood on it. ‘Jesus.’

Up onto elbows. Matty pushed him away.

‘Are you … on your period?’

‘Go away. Now.’ A kick to his pale thigh, not gentle.

‘I mean, ’cause that’s fine, it’s not a bother. You should have just—’

‘Now.’ This time, his knee crunched slightly.

Cormac still wasn’t moving, kneeling between both legs, a look of realisation passing over his face. He started to say something. Didn’t.

‘Fuck off. Please.’

He moved off the bed, his palms outwards, unpractised hostage gestures. ‘All right. I’m going.’ He got up quickly, picking up his pile of clothes and shutting the door very carefully behind him.

The sound of the tap, gushing hard in the kitchen. A pause. Gushing again.

He shouldn’t drive. He’d drunk too much.

The back door clicked shut, and his car started.

Matty’s head went under the duvet.

Chapter 12

The phone was ringing. Eleven o’clock. It was Brigid, ringing to say Happy St. Stephen’s Day, promising cakes when she returned later.