MOLLOY LOOKED EVERY bit as tired as McFadden. His forehead was creased with lines and he looked more worried than I’d ever seen him, as he dumped his sodden hat on the counter. He was carrying some plastic evidence bags, which he handed to McFadden who logged them and took them to a locked room behind the counter.

“Two bridges are down.” Molloy ran his hand through his damp hair.

“What? Which bridges?” I said.

“Two bridges on either side of Quigley’s Point. The bridge past Glentogher at the Riverside Bar and the one on the Muff–Derry Road.”

“There’s a bridge on the Muff strait?” I asked.

He nodded. “You wouldn’t have known it was there, but now it’s broken in two. The bridge at the Riverside Bar has come apart. The road just opened up.” He shook his head, as if he could barely believe it himself.

McFadden emerged from the room behind, looking shocked. “Is everyone okay?”

Molloy replied wearily, “Thankfully no one was hurt. But they’ve closed the Cockhill Bridge on the way into Buncrana too. The river is so swollen, they’re afraid it’ll engulf the bridge so they’ve evacuated the houses close by.”

“God, that’s awful,” I said.

McFadden locked the door of the back room and returned to his seat. “So how are people to get home? What about the people that work here in Glendara who live in Buncrana or Derry?”

“Anyone starting work this morning won’t have been able to get here,” Molloy said. “But the night workers, people who work in the hospital, for instance, they won’t be going home tonight. We’re just going to have to find accommodation for them here. All four major roads into Glendara are impassable. There are trees down, up to a meter of water in some places, and some other bridges are in danger of collapse.” He took a deep breath. “We are officially cut off.”

“You’re kidding?” I said.

“I wish I was.” He counted off the routes on his fingers. “The road between Glendara and Quigley’s Point is inaccessible, between Quigley’s Point and Muff, from Muff to Moville is especially dangerous. Road from North Pole Pub to Clonmany is closed …”

“So, we’re cut off from Derry too?” I asked.

He raised his palms in a gesture of surrender. “We are completely cut off from everywhere. Farm animals have been washed away, there are abandoned cars all over the place. Burnfoot is filling up, the Coast Guard are there with boats. The Fire Service are doing their best to pump floodwater away, but it’s an impossible job. They’ve been out rescuing people from cars and houses all night.”

I was appalled. This had all been happening while I’d been tucked up in bed.