The Church of the Holy Name stood in the centre of Kilmitten, its grey bulk making the surrounding buildings appear all the smaller. Groups of people milled around the entrance. There were reporters too. With their sheepskin coats, spiral notebooks and drawling Dublin accents, they stood out like donkeys in a field of cattle. Although most folks turned their backs or filed past with a tight-lipped glance, others, like Mercedes Talty, weren’t so shy. There she was, in front of the scrum, her mouth working overtime, her hands slicing through the air. ‘Heaven only knows what was going on,’ Conor heard her say.

Inside the church, Paula shepherded Conor and Tom to the third row. The holy Joes occupied the front pew, with the well-to-do, like the Minogues, sitting directly behind. For once, there were no messers slouching down the back. Even the O’Gradys sat in a neat line, their eyes closed as if they were actually saying prayers, their faces so shiny their mam must have spat on a hankie and given them a polish. Nina was sitting in front of Conor. He touched her back. She swivelled around and looked at him with questioning eyebrows. Then her mother gave her a swift poke in the side, and she turned away again. Tess was on the other side of the aisle, on her own. It was strange how she went to Mass when her mam didn’t bother. Tess was cool, though, and she could do whatever she liked. Conor recalled how, the previous summer, Philly O’Grady had thrown a dead rat in her direction. It had whizzed past her ear. Without making a sound, she’d picked the rat up by the tail and pelted it straight back. Her aim was much better, and it had hit him, wham, on the cheek. That had put a halt to his swagger.

Yeah, Tess was cool.

Father Galvin’s Masses had been all right. He hadn’t gone on about Hell the way some priests did. And unless it was Palm Sunday, when the Gospel was so long that women fainted, he’d rarely spoken for more than three-quarters of an hour. Father Smith, on the other hand, seemed determined to drone on for the rest of the day. He liked a lot of incense too. One of the altar boys, Paschal Ryan, was swinging the thurible like a lunatic. The smell made Conor feel sick.