Tom texted his wife to tell her he was on his way home and would pick up dinner. A message came back ordering Singapore noodles, hoisin duck, prawn toast and spicy chicken wings for her and Maria. He wasn’t getting any special treatment after the trauma of the shooting, that was for sure.

‘Dad, you scared the living daylights out of us,’ Maria said, meeting him at the door. She had Cáit on her hip, the tot ready for bed in a soft pink babygro, freshly washed and smelling wonderful.

‘Gan-gan,’ she greeted Tom, with outstretched pudgy arms. He took her and planted a big wet kiss on her cheek, squeezing her a little tighter than usual.

‘I missed you! How’s Granddad’s little monkey?’

‘Teeties?’

‘What does she want?’ he asked, handing her back to Maria.

‘Ignore her. Great Granny and Granddad kept giving her jellies in Wicklow. She’s asking you for sweets.’

Maria brought the baby upstairs as Tom made his way into the kitchen.

Louise had set out plates and cutlery and was uncorking a bottle of 2008 Alabaster Tempranillo that they’d received as a present for their most recent wedding anniversary.

‘You’re breaking out the good stuff,’ Tom observed, putting the bag of food down.

His wife crossed the room and wrapped her arms around him in a bear hug.

‘Hey,’ he said, holding her tightly. ‘I’m fine. Really.’

‘Tom Reynolds, you got shot at four times and I just saw the state of your hands.’ She pulled back and took them in hers, kissing the knuckles where they’d been cut and grazed by the exploding wall fragments.

‘You put the heart across me, love. Did you even read that text you sent me?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘What do I … “Man shooting at Ray and me, still at scene, but alright.” That’s what I mean, you bloody idiot.’ She dropped his hands and pushed him in the chest.

He couldn’t help laughing.

‘Sorry,’ he said, seeing the injured look on her face. ‘It does sound funny when you say it back. I wasn’t thinking, I just wanted to forewarn you.’

She tutted, but let him hug her again.

‘If I’d known we were opening a €140 bottle of wine I’d have picked up something fancier than Chinese,’ Tom said, as he removed the foil trays from the brown-paper carrier bag.

He stopped complaining after the first sip of the alcohol. It would make anything taste good and seemed to work particularly well with his roast pork kung po. Who knew?

Later, when his wife and daughter had gone to bed, Tom sat in the back garden and smoked one of his remaining Cuban cigars while he admired the twinkling stars overhead. The rain had cleared, leaving a still sky and pleasant night.