Most of all, he couldn’t admit how scared he was of Heaney’s documentary. He was terrified of the memories it would resurrect and the questions it would raise. Even more than the split with Nina, the TV programme had prompted his decision to leave the country now.

He worried that if he said any of this he would cry and he couldn’t allow that to happen. For the first time in his life, he wished he was a woman. Women were better at handling unhappiness.

‘I’m fine,’ he said. ‘Well, I’ve been better, but what can I do?’

His dad smiled a tight, sad smile. ‘You do know that Conor’s around for the weekend? I met Flan earlier – or Flan Varley, Man of Mystery, as I’ve taken to calling him. He told me they were expecting Conor this afternoon.’

‘I haven’t been talking to him. I haven’t really been talking to anyone.’

‘Why don’t you give the lad a ring?’

‘A fluent spoofer,’ said Conor, ‘captain of the national team at the spoofing Olympics.’

‘There must be more to him than that.’

‘Not that I noticed. You know his sort, they’re not like us. They grow up with so much self-belief, no amount of failure can put a dent in it.’

Tom took a mouthful of his pint. ‘Why didn’t we get any of that, huh?’

With his handkerchief-white skin and puffy eyes, Conor had never seen his friend look so rough. Or known him to be so miserable. Julian Heaney was his main topic of conversation, his only topic of conversation. Conor was doing his best to lighten the mood. It wasn’t easy.

‘Did you not spot anything when you met him?’ asked Tom. ‘Was he flirting with Nina? Making a play for her?’

‘Seriously, man, no. He was friendly towards her but he was the same with Tess. There was nothing to spot.’ What Conor didn’t say was, even on that first night Nina had been unexpectedly warm towards Julian. Neither did he say that the guy looked the part: that he wore a pricey leather jacket and had a sharp haircut. Tom wore a flannel shirt, and his hair appeared to have been cut with pinking shears. There was no point in twisting the knife.

Pilkington’s was brimming with customers. Lorraine Gilligan, who’d been the year behind them at St Ursula’s, was holding her twenty-first in the function room. A band, Bobby Buckley and the Bandits, was setting up. Party-goers flitted about. A group of old lads congregated in one corner, huddled like sheep against a storm. A great night, complaining about young people, lay ahead of them.

Tom had been reluctant to meet in the village’s most popular bar. ‘Can we not go somewhere quieter?’ he’d asked. ‘Like the graveyard?’