‘You know I had to tell them that Brigid had clouted me.’ A quick glance over. ‘They believed me and all.’ In different circumstances, they would have smiled. ‘Have you seen her?’

‘Thought I’d see you first.’

He said that Brigid had got herself on some Irish matchmaking organisation’s books and had already notched up two weeks of frenzied dating with artists, vets and tree surgeons. ‘She’s giving me all the gory details. Far more than I ever need to hear. I think it’s punishment. They’re all fellas, by the way.’ He’d folded his arms, shifted. ‘How’s your dad?’

‘Yeah. Hanging in there.’

He was nodding, looking out the same way. ‘I’m sorry. That’s such shite.’ Turned. Something vulnerable in his eyes.

‘You can, you know. Arrest me.’

He’d unfolded his arms, let them hang by his sides. ‘I’m not going to arrest you.’ Sighed. ‘Don’t tempt me.’

***

They looked at photos. Every one of them stung, but they were necessary. Toronto, sightseeing. The restaurant at the top of the CN Tower with a tiny Sheanna on Joe’s lap. Franklin in front of a half-built house in Halifax. The land that this house had been built on, a little Canadian flag jammed into the soil.

Matty had brought some, too. The things that had been important. Michelle and Martin and Matty, two with black-ringed eyes and three with sour expressions. A longer fringe. Swearing one-fingered at the camera in Camden. One with a bunch of kids in hard hats and high-vis jackets. The best lakes, the shocking colour of them. Heather, with an old girlfriend in their neon clubbing gear. Joe had looked at them all and wept.

One morning, Franklin had sat down next to Matty in the kitchen. ‘I wanted to tell you,’ he said. ‘Properly. How sorry I am. For all this. For you having not seen him. I whisked him away too quickly. He wanted to, but – I didn’t have a kid, then. I didn’t quite know. Not really.’ He produced a small box file full of paper. ‘He wrote to you all the time. Ones he never sent. I didn’t know for ages. He’s said to give them to you afterwards, but …’ He sighed, looked over, tearful. ‘I figured sooner rather than later.’

After a couple of phone calls, they went to see Maureen, Matty driving the car. It was just her at home, none of the others, waiting there on the doorstep in her slippers with her arms folded. ‘You daft fucking eedjit,’ she said to Joe, opposite her on the sofa, after fifteen minutes. Neither of them mentioned Franklin, or Sheanna.

***

Once, Joe was sitting on the front wall, staring out across at the lough, his walking stick next to him.

Matty joined him, putting a blanket over his shoulders. ‘You shouldn’t be out here. You’ll get cold.’