‘We probably shouldn’t be joking about funerals in a place like this,’ said Nina. ‘What do you make of Conor?’

Tess fingered a sachet of sugar. ‘I reckon he’s fine once he’s in here, surrounded by family and drugged up to the gills. But watching the person beside you being shot dead must have an impact. And imagine what goes through your head when you realise you’ve been shot yourself.’

‘I know this sounds silly, but it made me think of Father Galvin. On the night of the party, we were only a few yards away from where he was killed.’

‘I had the same reaction,’ said Tess, pouring the sugar onto the table and running a nail through it. ‘If you think about it, one of us could easily have stumbled upon the scene.’

Tom returned to his phone.

Nina considered what she was about to say. In her house, the words would be heresy. ‘Do you know,’ she said, ‘I’ve always had trouble believing that Noel O’Grady was to blame.’

Chapter 27

Six weeks on from the shooting, and guilt was snapping at Conor’s heels. It was there when he went to bed at night and when he woke in the morning. Could he have intervened? Could he have saved lives? Could he have stopped the gunmen escaping? Everybody reassured him that he’d no reason to beat himself up. He’d taken two bullets, for God’s sake. He was a shoo-in for a bravery medal. Keep going to the counselling sessions, they said.

He remonstrated with himself, told himself he was like a dog chasing a car. That obsessing over the Avondhu wasn’t just pointless, it was dangerous.

Yet the flashbacks kept crashing in. He saw the function room as it had been before the attack. He saw Warren Burke’s tanned face and he saw Comb-over, whom he now knew had been called Dessie Hartigan. What followed – being shot, the ambulance, the first few hours in hospital – was less distinct. But it was still there.