Now that I have stopped tapping, I can hear someone in my house, something to which I am quite unused. A door being softly closed, the creak of a tap being turned on, the hum of the washing machine. Oh dear God, don’t let him have broken my washing machine. My prayer for today.

I am tired in my head as well as my body. I think I will stretch out and sleep a while before a bright evening with Mother.

Lar took his clothes out of the washing machine and wondered what to do with them. The washing machine was in a lean-to at the back of the kitchen. Rain now beat on the roof and rattled on the window. A clothes-drier hung from the ceiling, but it was weighted with her clothes – trousers, shirts, pants and a couple of towels. Gingerly he let it down and felt the clothes; bone dry. They’d probably been there for days, weeks even. He began to pull them off the wooden poles and fold them up. He put them in piles on top of what looked like a deep freeze, and then he flapped and shook his own wet clothes and hung them neatly on the drier. He thought about his mother as he pulled at the collar of one of his shirts.

‘Why?’ he said to her.

‘There is no answer to that, son. So many times down the years we have asked that question. Just keep on believing in the goodness of God.’

It was the day of the funeral and she held his clean white shirt out towards him. Ironed immaculately. Smelling of soap and fresh air.

He had shaken his head.

‘Put it on, Laurence. It is respectful to look your best. Don’t be letting us down, or yourself for that matter. Your father has your good shoes polished. I doubt they’ve seen a touch of polish since the day you bought them.’

He just sat there by the window and shook his head. Let her get on with her nonsense. He wouldn’t move from this chair. Let them do their burying; he would stay here and mourn. Only he could mourn; he would not take part in their public display of sorrow. He would mourn alone.

His mother’s voice was sharp when next she spoke.

‘Get up this minute, Laurence, and put on your clothes! We are all waiting for you, Father Hennigan and your wife and child. And Caitlin’s mother. Don’t forget her. What makes you think your suffering is any greater than hers? Answer me that. You’re making me very angry, son. These things all have to be done before you can be healed. You know that as well as I.’

‘I don’t want to be healed.’

‘You don’t know what you want. Now put on your clean clothes and let’s go to the church.’

I did not want to be healed.

Pull the sleeves right side out, smooth the cuffs.

I still don’t.