‘Oh darling, I have to go to Belfast tomorrow, to bring up the rest of the pictures. It’s your light day, isn’t it? Can I leave Moy with you from lunchtime on? I should be back about six.’

‘Not tomorrow, I’m afraid. The mocks are starting and there’s going to be panic all over the place. I’m invigilating most of the day. I’m sorry. Why don’t you ask Mother?’

‘No, it’s all right. I’ll bring her. No problem. Your mother’s so kind, but no … I’ll bring her. She’s no bother. Her first trip to the Smoke.’

If, ififififif.

No point.

Below him, Dublin smoked and smouldered in the sun.

Lar turned and looked back along the valley; there was no sign of Clara. He wasn’t even quite sure where the little bridge was, but he presumed that if he followed the stream he would eventually come to it. He began to trudge, Pansy now more subdued following him closely.

I could have swapped my invigilation with Gerry. How many times had he said those words to himself?

He thought of the hawk in the sky, watching. He thought of the man who had been up on the hillside watching, quite still, behind a rock, waiting for the military vehicle to come along. Happiness in his heart, perhaps. Was there happiness in the heart of the hovering hawk? Probably not. Routine food-gathering operation.

I could have swapped my invigilation with Gerry. I could have gone home and taken the child from Caitlin’s arms as she was about to strap her into the car seat. ‘Who do you love, baby? Who’s Daddy’s girl?’ I could have said as we stood and waved goodbye. I could have kissed Caitlin, blown warm air into her ear. ‘Drive carefully. Love you, see you at suppertime.’ Those seconds might have saved her life, both their lives. Or maybe they were meant to die. Part of some grand plan – God’s plan, as his mother believed.

And the man who pushed the plunger, pressed the button, whatever the hell it was he did, was he also part of the grand plan? Was it ordered somewhere that he should take his mind off the road for a second or two, close his eyes to clear away some recollection that was disturbing him? Did he get a sudden cramp in his leg that he had to attend to? Was his mind for a moment on his girl, the sound of her voice, the taste of her inside thigh? How had he not noticed the truck slow down to let the little red car hurry past?

He could see now the rough grey stones of the bridge and the figure of Clara sitting beside it. The hawk was no longer visible in the sky.

The odd thing, one of the soldiers had said afterwards at the inquest, was that though the explosion had blown the car apart, the tape machine had continued to play; as the men had jumped from the truck and run towards the wreckage, they could hear the voice of a man singing: ‘Old Macdonald had a farm, ee i ee i o. And on that farm he …’