Nobody wanted Bridie to wake until at least lunchtime: when she was rested she was less agitated, even when she became confused. She often walked at night, up and down the narrow bungalow hallway, for hours at a time, shuffling along the wooden floor. It was no good trying to coax her into bed when she was in walking mode: she’d fight for her right to lose herself in her own hallway. She’d whisper to herself, or sing softly, and sometimes she was silent, her eyes disappearing behind a fog. They all made sure to double-lock the doors and Maisie had even had the windows secured with fancy keys to ensure Bridie didn’t make it outside. Jeremy’s window key had gone missing so he locked his door from the inside to ensure Grammy couldn’t pass him during the night and hop out of the window. It was a fire hazard but Maisie had put a wrench under every bed so they could all break their windows to escape if they had to. It also served as a tool to batter any would-be rapist or psycho killer who saw women and kids in a bungalow as an easy target. To date, Bridie hadn’t tried to escape the house in the wee hours and the wrenches were still in their wrappers.

‘You’re not going to believe what’s after happening,’ Valerie said to Jeremy, who was relieving his mother of two of the four bags she was laden with.

‘Wha’?’ His tone suggested he wasn’t very interested.

‘Flintstone asked me ma out.’ The kids had been calling him Flintstone since the day, two years previously, when he had told them to call him Fred, rather than Garda Brennan. Big mistake.

‘Do not call him Flintstone,’ Maisie said, heading for the kitchen.

‘Yeah, right.’ Jeremy laughed a little. He followed his mother, Valerie trailing behind.

‘He did, I swear.’

‘Are you messin’?’

Valerie shook her head and folded her arms. Jeremy looked from his sister to his mother. ‘Seriously?’

Maisie sighed. She’d made a decision in the car. If she was going to let Fred down she’d have to do it gently over dinner. It was the least she could do under the circumstances. Anyway, he’ll probably see sense halfway through and realize I’m not for him.

‘It’s just dinner,’ Maisie said. I can’t believe I’m saying this.

‘And a drink. Dinner always means drinks,’ Valerie said.

Jeremy sat himself on the stool as though his legs had suddenly lost the strength to hold him upright. ‘Jesus, Ma, you’re not going through with it, are ya?’

‘I am.’

‘Why?’