After she’d showered, while she dressed in the newly fitted bathroom, Sara heard a raised, angry voice from outside. She knew it belonged to Francie. In the bedroom, she went to the window and looked down at the front of the property. A man stood by a van, his head down, looking at his feet. Francie, a good six inches shorter, stood so close his belly pressed against him, his forefinger stabbing at the air an inch from the man’s face. The man wore a tool belt. The electrician, she thought.

She could hear snatches of Francie’s words now.

“A week ago . . . get the fuck in there . . . get it finished . . . I’ll knock the shite out of you.”

Sara went to the top of the stairs. From there, she could see the open front door. The electrician stepped through, carrying a toolbox. He noticed her watching and froze for a moment. She saw the shame on him, knowing she’d witnessed his humiliation. He got himself moving and disappeared from her view. She had the urge to call after him, but Damien entered and jogged up the stairs. He brushed past her on his way to the bedroom. She followed him.

“Your father told me about that woman,” Sara said.

Damien peeled off his T-shirt and selected a fresh shirt from the wardrobe. “Aye?”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I thought I had,” he said, feigning a thoughtful look. “Yeah, I’m sure I did.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“Yeah, I did,” he said, his voice firmer now. “When I first told you Da had bought this place. I mentioned it then. Remember, I told you, that’s why it was so cheap.”

“I don’t remember,” Sara said.

That conversation seemed clear in her mind. A fortnight after she’d got out of hospital. There’s this house, Damien had said over dinner. And he told her about it, out in the country, by a river, peaceful and quiet, just what we need to get things back to normal. To get your head straight. There had been a fire, yes, she remembered him saying that, but she couldn’t recall mention of the woman having to go to a care home.

But maybe she was mistaken. Certainty had become a stranger to her. Damien often remembered things she didn’t. Things that had happened or hadn’t happened. Words spoken or unspoken. She had learnt to distrust her own memories.

“Was there anything else?” she asked.

He paused buttoning his shirt and studied her more intently. “What do you mean?”

“About this house,” she said, holding his gaze.

“What are you getting at?”

“It’s an old house. It must have a history. I just wondered about it.”

“Is that what you’re wearing?” he asked.