Occasionally, Conor pretended his mam was still alive. He’d think he could smell her perfume or hear her singing along to the radio. Most mothers had shocking taste in music. Conor’s mam had been different. She’d liked The Eagles and Meat Loaf and Bruce Springsteen. Not that she’d been much of a singer. He could hear her now, crucifying ‘Born To Run’ or ‘Bat Out Of Hell’. Once upon a time, his dad used to talk about her. ‘What would Caroline do?’ he’d say, or ‘It’s a shame Caroline isn’t here to see this.’ These days, he rarely mentioned her. When he wasn’t at work, he foostered about the house with a hammer or a screwdriver. He was always mending stuff.

Overhead, the water pipes gurgled and whined. In the bed, Tom’s breathing was shallow and steady. He sounded like he was asleep, but Conor knew he was pretending. He couldn’t sleep either. His brain was too busy.

It wasn’t quite bright when Paula roused them for Mass.

‘Wakey wakey, lads,’ she said, her hands clapping time. ‘If we don’t leave soon, we won’t get a decent seat.’

Like a fool, Conor had assumed this would be a Mass-free Sunday. The priest was lying in the morgue, after all. No such luck. Father Smith, the curate in Templemorris, had been called in.

Despite their early start, Conor’s dad had already left for the station.

Half an hour later, the three were plodding up the street, the ground as slippery as margarine, the sky flat and milky. Ahead of them, Mags Moynihan took an almighty skid and ended up on her backside. If this had been a normal Sunday, Conor and Tom would have collapsed with laughter. But the village felt odd, as if a heavy blanket had been placed over it, and laughing would have been wrong. Tom was lost in his thoughts and didn’t appear to notice Mags’s somersault.

Tom wasn’t usually this quiet. At school, he was full of games and schemes. That didn’t stop him from doing well. He’d pretend he couldn’t follow the hard stuff, like theorems or the tuiseal ginideach. Then a teacher would ask him a question, and he’d reel off the answer, no problem. Conor had to make more of an effort. Even after his mam had died, when he could have got away with skiving, he’d done most of his homework. He hadn’t wanted anyone thinking he was thick.