He rolled down the window. “Go back inside. You’ll get soaked.”

I screwed up my face. He was right. “Can I come with you? I know what’s happened and I know it’s Maeve – she’s just texted me.”

He looked at me doubtfully, hand on the key in the ignition.

“I might be able to help. She’s going to be upset and I’ll be able to calm her down.”

A moment passed.

“Come on,” I pleaded. “She’s my friend.” Rain streamed down my face. The newspaper was disintegrating. Why hadn’t I put my bloody hood up? I was still half-asleep, that’s why.

“Okay,” he said finally. “Get in then.”

I ran over to the passenger side before he changed his mind, and climbed in, just before he pulled away. We circled the green and crossed the old ten-arched bridge, through the pelting rain, windscreen wipers going constantly.

“Bloody hell. Is it ever going to stop?” Molloy said. “It’s like Noah’s ark.”

I chucked the sopping newspaper into the back seat. “That’s what Phyllis said. Biblical.”

We drove towards Glendara along the coast, past McSheffrey’s Bridge, the mudflats and the ruined thatched cottage, then over another bridge where we turned right, crossing a fourth almost immediately. For the first time it struck me how many bridges there were in Inishowen – usually it was the sea that dominated.

Visibility was lousy and the roads were a quagmire; the headlights illuminated branches, weeds and other debris being swept along in the swollen rainwater. Twice we stopped at a huge body of water, unsure if we could make it to the other side, but with no option but to try. Some routes were barely passable and if it kept raining the way it had been, I suspected they wouldn’t be for long.

When we hit the main Ballyliffin road, we turned right, driving out past the golf links, then on towards Clonmany where the square was almost entirely under water. After the village, Molloy indicated to turn left before Urris GAA Club.

“I always go right to Mamore,” I remarked.

He glanced over at me briefly, the windscreen wipers reflecting on his face. “I think the higher road is a better option tonight, don’t you?”

He had a point. The 24-kilometer journey from Malin to Mamore Gap had already taken us half an hour. I wanted to ask him more about what McFadden had said, but I suspected he knew little more than I did at this stage, and his expression didn’t invite chat.

Fields fell away on either side as we drove through the valley. I was glad we were in Molloy’s car rather than the Mini and I was glad he was driving; keeping the car on the road can’t have been easy in the pitch black. At some point it stopped raining, but silence remained between us as he focused on the road ahead.