Matty attempted sit-ups, but they still weren’t doable. Then a few one-handed press-ups, wincing. A handle fixed onto an extra-large, full bottle of water, though strengthening one hand and not the other was stupid. Some squats and cross-body punches, fisting out the mortification of the night before. The shame of not being able to do it. The shame at being tempted to.

The early afternoon was spent watching the washing machine, having already scrubbed at the coin of blood left on the sheet. The slop and slosh of the water mixing with the gale-force winds outside.

It was time to leave. Matty would have to think about what to do next. Stay in North London, and be constantly reminded of Rosa, or go somewhere else, far away from here. Get more work. Except that Cormac might put out a search for Joe. Be constantly reminded of Dale. Pretend it never happened. Except Cormac.

Matty was draping the sheet over the radiator when there was the sound of a car parking up. Not Brigid’s. He hadn’t crashed and died, then.

Cormac stood inside the back door, rain in his hair, keys in his hand. It was the first time Matty had seen him in anything other than his suit or the running gear. He was wearing jeans and a grey zip-up top that made his eyes look even more wintry, and there was stubble on his cheeks.

They sat down in the kitchen.

‘I didn’t know,’ he said eventually, his sleeves rolled up, hands clasped on the table. ‘Did you really never …?’

‘I never felt like it.’ It had been a mistake. A drunk mistake.

Cormac nodded and stared at the dark hair on his knuckles. ‘But – you felt like it with me?’ There was the slightest trace of hope in his voice.

‘Just wanted to get it over with.’

It was as if he had been readying himself to say something else. The breath he was taking stopped short and he almost looked like he was going to laugh, perhaps at himself. ‘Right.’ He unfolded his hands, one arm out straight next to Matty’s. ‘If I’d have known, I would have gone about it differently.’ His voice sounded almost winsome.

Candles, wine, Westlife. Action movies. Foul-mouthed hip-hop. ‘Would you?’ The urge to tell him everything. To confess.

There was a growl to the wind outside.

Cormac’s forefinger straightened, and he touched the raised bone of Matty’s wrist. ‘I’m sorry I messed it all up. You should have said.’

Matty saw Brigid’s shadow at the door first, withdrawing the hand as she came in. The wind had blurred the noise of the engine. Cormac shifted suddenly back in his seat and stood up, the chair scraping.

She had a large canvas shopping bag, and glanced at them both before putting it down. ‘I wasn’t expecting you,’ she said to her brother.