‘It’s probably better for him,’ Dr Sweeney says. ‘In the long run. I know it’s an awful shock now.’

I nod and make the right noises and say the right things, but I’m starting to wish they would all just get on with it. Take him away. Load him onto a trolley and into the back of the ambulance, or get the undertakers to collect him. I can’t escape the reality that he is already starting to decay. With every minute that passes, I start to believe that this is real. That finally he is gone.

I want his physical remains to be gone, too.

I need him to leave.

‘It will be okay,’ Stella says, appearing beside me.

I want so much to tell her it already is.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Heidi

Now

There’s a uniform for grieving. I don’t think I’ve ever thought of it much before, but now, standing in front of my wardrobe trying to find suitable items in black to wear over the coming days, I realise that it exists.

I glance down at my stomach, still loose and flabby following Lily’s birth five and a half months before. It’s hard now to remember it swollen and tight. It’s hard to imagine the smiling, wriggling baby lying on her play mat beside me ever living inside me.

I find a simple shift dress, loose and forgiving, which I’d worn to a friend’s granny’s funeral, and decide it will do for now. Thick black tights, flat shoes and the grey cardigan from the back of the door complete the look.

I wonder if I should put make-up on. I don’t think I’ve worn make-up since Lily was born, but the black clothes will make me look even more washed out. I resolve to put on a little but not too much. I pull my hair into a loose ponytail, aware that it is still falling out in clumps. The joys of a post-pregnancy body.

I wish we didn’t have to go through this process. The Irish wake. Two days and nights of mourning over a coffin sat in our house. Several days of making sure he’s not left alone, bowing to tradition and superstition. Several days of handshaking and nodding and passing around cups of tea, snifters of whisky for the ‘oul fellahs’, before we can bury him and I can start to bury so much more.

I wish we could leave him in a funeral home. Visit only when we want to – if we want to. Keep a distance from it all. I wish I’d never have to think about Joe McKee again.

I glance at the clock. It’s twelve thirty. We’ve said we’ll be back at the house by two. There will be furniture to be shifted. Someone will have to go to the community centre and see if we can get a loan of some chairs for visitors coming to the wake and a tea urn to keep the fresh cups coming. There will be sandwiches to make …