Lough Derg was a lake a few miles across the border in the Republic. At its centre lay Station Island, home to St Patrick’s Purgatory, Europe’s oldest place of pilgrimage. Tony and Ann had gone together for the three-day retreat. He’d only gone because she wanted to, but found the place, in spite of his scepticism, strangely peaceful. He trod the stations, concentric circles of rocks on which the pilgrims walked in bare feet while reciting the rosary, thinking of Martin Kelly and his final journey into the woodland. Yet, when it came time for confession, as he had done before and so many times since, Tony could not bring himself to confess what they had done. As a result, when they sat on the boat returning back to the mainland on the final day, he felt still a sort of gnawing guilt that would not ease. And he realised now, with a mild shock, that Karen was right. What he hoped to find with Martin Kelly’s grave was forgiveness.

“My wife was pretty religious,’ he said, glancing at Karen to see if she was reacting, but she did not look at him, her face turned towards the scenery sliding past. ‘I got involved in the church with her. Then when she got sick, we became more involved.’

‘Did it help her?’ Duggan asked.

Tony ignored the snide nature of the comment. ‘It did,’ he said. ‘She found comfort in it.’

‘She still died though,’ Duggan said.

‘Hugh!’ Karen turned on him now. ‘That’s enough.’

Duggan chuckled. ‘I’m only saying.’

‘She still died,’ Tony agreed. ‘And what about you, Hugh?’

‘I’m not religious,’ Duggan laughed, shaking his head. ‘Not in years.’

‘I mean, are you dying?’

Duggan’s expression set as he turned and glanced coldly at Tony, a humourless smirk tautening his lips. ‘You’re getting brave,’ he said.

‘I’ve no reason not to be,’ Tony said. He’d grown tired of Duggan’s presumption of authority. ‘As you’ve said so many times before, we’re all in this together. I’m guessing you’re not well.’

‘We’re all dying,’ Duggan said. ‘Isn’t that the idea: life is the ultimate terminal disease? What killed your missus?’

‘Cancer.’

‘Breast?’

‘Brain.’

He’d not spoken the words so baldly before and wondered why he was doing so now. When she was first diagnosed, after weeks of headaches, forgetting keys, stumbling over words, they’d been hopeful, ready to fight it. She’d even talked about doing Lough Derg again, as if bargaining with God. But the seizures that followed prevented that.

The first had been after a concert in the Guildhall, a local musical society. Again, it had been Ann’s choice; she’d loved the old musicals: Oklahoma, Annie Get Your Gun, South Pacific.