She had never driven Damien’s new BMW, so it took a moment to work out how to get it started, how the automatic gearbox worked. That done, she manoeuvred it along the driveway and onto the lane beyond. She had driven as far as the village before the adrenalin drained away and the tremors and tears came flooding in.

Sara sat in the parked car on Morganstown’s Main Street, the BMW’s engine idling, until the car’s display said it had gone eight in the morning. The people of Morganstown were already going about their business, heading to their jobs in Lurgan, Portadown and Lisburn, stopping for petrol and coffee at the filling station at the end of the village. In the rear-view mirror, at the corner behind her, she saw Mr. Buchanan laying his wares outside his shop.

Exhaustion chased the receding tremors, but she would not give in to it. She had things to do. The pair of phones lay on the passenger seat beside her. She lifted Damien’s first, but she didn’t know his passcode. Of course. Sara opened the driver’s window and tossed it onto the road. Her own phone had only a few per cent charge left. To her surprise, Damien hadn’t thought to erase her recent calls. There, Tony’s number. She hesitated for a moment, then touched it with her thumb. The display changed and a dial tone sounded. She brought the phone to her ear.

A click, then silence, save for a distorted quivering breath.

“Hello?” Sara said.

“Who is this?”

A woman’s voice, soaked in pain and sorrow.

“Mrs. Rossi? This is Sara Keane.”

A pause, then, “What do you want?”

“I wanted to know about Tony,” she said. “Is he all right?”

A shuddering exhalation. “Is he all right? Oh, dear God, is he all right?”

“I’m sorry, I—”

“Antonio’s in surgery,” Mrs. Rossi said. “He has three broken ribs and a punctured lung. He has swelling on his brain. They have to open up his head so they can drain it.”

Sara closed her eyes.

“My boy’s lying in the Royal Victoria Hospital with his head split open because of you. He might never be right again. You did this. You brought this to my door and I will never forgive you.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t,” Mrs. Rossi said, spitting the word. “Don’t you bloody dare say sorry to me. And you listen. The people around here, they won’t say anything to the police, but I bloody will. I don’t care what Francie Keane threatens me with, I don’t care if he has me killed, I will see him in jail for what he done to my Antonio. Him and that bastard son of his. Don’t you come near my boy ever again.”

She hung up.