Tony sat for a moment as his father sobbed, hoping propinquity was its own support. Then, embarrassed, he moved into the living room.

After nine, father, mother and son, sitting in the silence of their home, exhausted by the day’s events, heard the clatter of gunfire down the estate. The late evening news confirmed that a policeman had been shot on patrol.

At one in the morning, their front door was rammed open and six soldiers forced their way into the house. Tony was in his bed, sleeping only in his underwear. They were in his room before he even had a chance to grab something to cover him. His father was already being pulled down the stairs by the time they got Tony to release his grip on the bedpost; one of them raised his boot and ground Tony’s fingers against it until he had to let go. Two of them dragged him after his father, ignoring his mother’s screams.

He was down in seconds and out on to the street, illuminated by the strobing of blue lights from the police Land Rovers which were parked at the end of the row, keeping back the straggle of protesters who’d already emerged from their houses.

The bench in the rear of the Land Rover was cold, the cushion padding long since torn away. He thought for a moment that one of the soldiers, who he’d seen lifting his clothes off the chair beside his bed, would hand them to him, but the heavy doors swung shut and he sat in his pants, his father opposite in stripped pyjamas, his mouth moving wordlessly.

‘Here, son.’ The man next to Tony peeled off his shirt and handed it to him. ‘Better half-dressed than buck naked,’ Hugh Duggan said. ‘Smoke.’

Tony shook his head.

‘First time?’

‘Aye.’

‘They’ll try all sorts,’ Hugh said. ‘Whatever they do, say nothing. But don’t be surprised if they threaten to shoot your ma, or stitch up your da here. Fuck ’em. Tell ’em nothing. But they’re a shower of dirty bastards. Whatever dirty trick they pull, you be ready.’

Chapter Four

‘Be ready for 8.30,’ the text had said. In fact, the car pulled up at the bus stop five minutes early. The youth who opened the passenger door for Tony was in his early twenties at most, his hair thick and curled.

‘Tony Canning?’ he asked.

Tony nodded. He’d been instructed to bring an overnight bag with a change of clothes. The only one he’d been able to find that morning was the small tartan travel bag he’d bought for Ann when first she went into the hospital. She only used it for a few days before it became clear her stay would necessitate more than two days change of underwear. Even with so little use, the bag had still smelt of the hospital when he’d opened it.

As he’d packed it for his own journey that morning, he’d found a pen lying at the bottom of it. He’d brought it in with her Sudoku book, to keep her entertained. He’d held it between his finger and thumb, as if it was a talisman from his dead wife. He’d contemplated bringing it with him, pretended to forget it on the dressing table after he left the house and felt embarrassed at such a poor attempt at self-delusion.