‘I’ve got to get back to work.’ Conor’s dad glanced around the room. ‘A word to the wise: don’t go thinking the papers know what’s going on, because they don’t.’

Conor looked at Tom, but his friend’s eyes never left the floor.

Chapter 4

On Monday afternoon, the power went. Nina and Tess were in the Fortunes’ sitting room, watching television, when the picture shrivelled to a dot and disappeared. Tess tried the lights, but nothing happened.

‘My dad said there was something on the radio about power cuts in other parts of the country,’ said Nina. ‘The snow’s brought down lots of the lines.’

‘It might be a while before the electricity’s back, so,’ said Tess, giving the light switch another flick. ‘We could go out, I suppose.’

‘Maybe we should call over to Conor’s house and see how the lads are getting on.’

‘Mmm. Only what’ll we do then?’

In the days since Father Galvin’s death, going out had become increasingly complicated. A blend of mourning and fear had taken over the village, and anybody seen larking about could expect disapproval. Even Toomey’s Hill was out of bounds. Tess said this was a waste of good snow, but Nina didn’t mind. Her headmistress had called to say the weather was terrible in Kildare and the boarding school would remain closed for another week. A week without school felt like such a blessing that she didn’t care how she spent it.

Tess’s mother was at work in the chipboard factory in Templemorris, so they had the house to themselves. In all the years Nina had been visiting Tess’s place, it hadn’t changed. While her own home had been through countless renovations, the Fortunes’ sitting room had the same mossy-brown sofa and chairs, the same shiny coffee table, the same smell of coal and cigarettes. The one photo was of a six-year-old Tess and her mother. It had been taken on a day trip to the seaside. Tess had more gaps than teeth and her mother’s hair was in Farrah Fawcett wings. They both looked like they were having the best day of their lives.

Tess sat down again and wrapped her arms around her knees. ‘It’s not like there was anything worth watching on the telly, anyway. I wish we had all the channels – or a video recorder. The Moynihans rented one for Christmas. Mags had Mam’s head wrecked from boasting about it.’

‘We’ve got five channels at school,’ said Nina. ‘Because Kildare’s so close to Dublin, we get the BBCs and ITV.’

‘That must be magic.’

‘Not really. Apart from the odd show, like Top of the Pops, we’re not allowed to watch the British channels. And sometimes I don’t even watch that.’

‘Why not?’