If he’d survived for long after the impact, they could not say; the Land Rover had not stopped, for fear of an ambush. Whatever of that, the boy was dead by the time the people living in Nualamont Drive came out to see what had happened.

‘What did Mullan want?’ his father asked, later that evening. They were sitting in the kitchen, his father with an untouched mug of tea in front of him.

They’d invited all the funeral guests back to the local community centre for tea and sandwiches and hung round till the last of them departed.

Tony shrugged quizzically.

‘Sean Mullan,’ his father said, as if that clarified things. ‘He spoke to you at the grave,’ he added. ‘The fat guy with the moustache.’

Tony was surprised at the personal nature of his father’s comment. ‘He said if we needed help–’

‘Not from the likes of him,’ his dad snapped. ‘You didn’t agree to anything, did you?’

Tony considered whether murmuring agreement to the comment that whoever had killed his brother should be held to account was something he should mention. In the end he simply shook his head. ‘I don’t even know who he is.’

‘Trouble’s who he is,’ his dad said. ‘Looking to jump on the back of Danny’s death.’

‘How?’

‘Mullan’s high up with that crowd of hoods. He’ll be claiming Danny’s death was political.’

‘It was political,’ Tony said, feeling the first flames of his anger build – the first stirring of any emotion, in fact, since Danny’s death. Comforted by its presence after days of numbness, he clung to it. ‘The fucking army ran him over.’

‘It was an accident,’ his father said, lifting the spoon out of his mug and, with it, the film settling on the surface of his drink.

‘Accident my arse. They drove over him, like a dog.’

His father lifted his head, gazed at him, his eyes brimming, and Tony regretted the insensitivity of the words. ‘The guy who was driving is nineteen. Younger than you. It was his first week here.’

‘Is that what they told you?’ He kindled his own rage, even as he wondered why he was directing it at his father

The older man inhaled, sharply, then held the breath, as if reluctant to let it go for fear of what might happen. ‘And what did Mullan tell you? That they’d get them back?’

Tony kept his expression neutral. ‘Maybe someone should.’

His father nodded. ‘And what good would that do? Would it mean Danny would be back home with us?’

‘Someone should pay.’

‘Why? Will that balance things out, if there’s some other father sitt–’ He paused, his breath a suspiration. ‘Sitting stirring his cold fucking mug of tea the day he buries his boy. Will that make things better?’

Tony felt the urge to move to his father, to encircle him in his arms, but the distance between them seemed greater than ever. ‘It’ll not make them worse,’ he said.

‘Yes, it will,’ the old man said, his expression drawn. ‘You don’t diminish your own grief by creating it for someone else.’ He raised his chin, already trembling, but it did not stop the tears.