Tom thought again about what he’d seen – or what he thought he’d seen. Nobody knew that while Father Galvin had been lying on the floor, he’d been cowering outside. The problem was, if he said anything now, he’d be in trouble for not speaking sooner. And that wasn’t all: for every reason to tell, there were two reasons not to. Telling might make everything worse, and life was difficult enough already. How he wished he could go back in time. A week would be enough. Imagine: a week ago his biggest concern had been impressing Nina. He tried to convince himself that what he knew didn’t matter. Every night, he ran it all around his brain until he thought his head might burst open. Now they were back home, he’d be able to steal some of his mam’s tablets.

School was due to open again in the morning, and he’d have to answer a zillion questions about Father Galvin. The Templemorris lads would probably be full of smart comments too. They were forever making fun of people who got the bus to school, calling them muckers and bog-trotters. The way they carried on, you’d swear Templemorris was the size of New York. Tom wasn’t sure if he should brag about being in the shed with the girls or act like he knew nothing. He needed to talk to Conor and Tess.

‘So?’ said his dad.

‘There’s nothing to tell. Only … well, you know the way it is …’

His father patted his shoulder. ‘Don’t I just, son. Don’t I just.’

Tom put the fiver in his pocket. ‘I won’t be long,’ he said.

Chapter 6

London, July 1987

This, Tess would have to admit, was not going well. She hadn’t meant any harm. The letter had been so tedious she’d felt she was doing the boss a favour. He ought to know how others would respond. So, after she’d typed up his pompous nonsense, she’d added a short note. You might, she’d written, want to lighten up a bit. After all, this is a PR company, not a funeral home. Also, starting with ‘It has come to my attention’? Not a smart move. You sound like you’re issuing a final warning on an electricity bill rather than trying to suck up to a client who’s taken some of his business elsewhere. In fact, why write a letter at all? Why not lift the phone and have a chat? Unfortunately, her suggestions hadn’t been welcome, which was how she found herself receiving a severe talking-to from the office manager.

‘Do you understand,’ Harriet was saying, ‘the role of a temporary typist?’