Tony looked down at her hand. She pulled it away as if it burned. Heat crept across her cheeks once more, and her neck, down her chest. She reached for her tea, took a sip.

“You know who he is,” he said. “You know what he’s been involved in.”

“He did some time in prison,” Sara said, putting the mug down. “Damien told me. Possession of explosives or something like that. Damien says he was wrongly convicted, that he didn’t know the explosives were on his property.”

Tony laughed, caught himself, cleared his throat. “If that’s what Damien told you, then I’m not going to contradict him. It’s none of my business.”

“I want to know. I need to know.”

“If Damien knew I said anything.” Tony shook his head and turned his gaze to the floor. “If Francie knew.”

“I won’t tell them.”

He looked up at her, and away, fighting himself.

“Tell me,” Sara said.

He leaned his head to one side, exhaled, gave in.

“Francie Keane wasn’t the boy who hid the explosives,” Tony said. “It was always some other poor bastard did that for him, whether they wanted to or not. It’s before I was born, but one time my father was told to hide guns under his floorboards. He wasn’t given any choice in it. It was Francie Keane knocked his door and took him for a drive around the estate so he could tell him what’s what. Either my da hid the guns or Francie would have his knees.”

His words quickened as he spoke, anger driving them.

“I don’t know how Francie got caught with explosives, my guess is he was about to hand them over to someone, but he wasn’t the boy hid them. He was the boy told someone else to hide them, or they’d be dealt with. He was the boy said whose car those explosives wound up under. A cop, or a part-time soldier, or some tradesman who did odd jobs around a police station because he needed the work. They drive off in the car some morning and meet an incline, that tilts the mercury, and bang!”

He slapped the worktop, made Sara flinch.

“Maybe they die or maybe they live the rest of their life with no legs. If they’re lucky, their children weren’t in the car with them when the bomb went off. Francie would never have planted a bomb himself, he was always too smart, but he told plenty of young fellas where to put them. Young fellas who wound up in jail, or died, or lost their arms when the bomb went off too soon, but Francie made sure he kept his distance. I don’t know if he ever shot anyone, but I know he said who got shot.”

He placed his hands flat on the worktop, leaned on them.