Upstairs, Eliza discovered Olivia had booked her into a room with a striking view of the castle. She unpacked, then flicked through the information folder. Alongside a history of the castle was a page on the filming of Braveheart. There was a map of the town, with a list of pubs and restaurants. Emmet’s pub was included. She noticed something else. An Emmet Street. It almost felt like a sign.

She couldn’t go straight to his pub. Not yet. She’d go across to the castle first. Get some fresh air.

She walked the short distance to the entrance, on the way passing an information board about Braveheart. Near the castle gate was a sign about guided tours. She didn’t go in. She followed a path around the castle walls instead, then across a footbridge. She stopped and looked down at the fast-flowing river tumbling over the rocks. The castle formed a dramatic backdrop. Another tower was visible on a higher field. A sign told her it was called the Yellow Steeple. She took the path up to it. She could see someone was already there, taking photos. Lawrence. He saw her and waited.

‘Did you find the pub okay?’ he asked as she reached him.

She admitted that she hadn’t been there yet.

‘I passed it earlier, when I walked around the town. You can see the roof of it from here.’ He lifted his camera, focused, then held it in front of her. Standing close, she was aware of the piney scent of his aftershave. She could clearly see the pub’s roof through the viewfinder. She had a sudden longing to stay here, watching from afar. To see Emmet for the first time from this safe distance.

Go now, Eliza.

She didn’t know if the voice in her head was her own, or someone else’s. Her mother’s?

She thanked Lawrence, then walked back down the hill into the town.

It was nearly four. A good time, she hoped. After the lunch trade, before any evening rush. It was a day of grey skies interrupted by sudden cloud clearances, sending shafts of bright light across the sky. Emmet’s pub was brightly coloured. Window boxes planted with red geraniums. Stained glass above the door. It only took her a moment to adjust from the daylight to the pub’s dim interior.

It smelt of coffee. Of toasted sandwiches. An underlying smell – smoky, from a fireplace, not cigarettes. A yeasty smell of alcohol. It was warm. A fire had been lit in the corner, the source of the smoke as well as the warmth. There was music playing on a radio. Fleetwood Mac’s ‘Landslide’. The DJ back-announced it, before passing over to the newsroom. Eliza listened to a solemn Irish accent detailing several news items.