His thoughts turned to what she’d told him the night before. By now, the word about Flan and Ginny would be spreading through the village, fast as fire. When Nina had called, he’d thought she was joking. ‘Go on,’ he’d said, ‘what have you been smoking?’ In the end, he’d accepted that she was telling the truth. People certainly could surprise you.

But he knew that.

Nina had sounded preoccupied, and Tom feared that if it wasn’t for the Flan and Ginny revelation she mightn’t have rung at all. She’d let slip that she’d met the documentary producer in Mangan’s shop. Although Tom pressed for more information, she was disappointingly offhand. He supposed she wasn’t overly troubled by a television crew trawling the village and retracing the events of 1982. Her memories had dulled, and while that was good, he wished she understood that for some people forgetting wasn’t an option. The night remained in his head. As did Leo Galvin. Tom pictured the priest, loping around the village, swapping wisecracks and enquiring after his parishioners’ health. He couldn’t say this to Nina, so he struggled on, hoping the day would come when he, too, could forget.

He presumed she was still annoyed with him for staying in Dublin. She reckoned he was using Val’s as an excuse not to go home. He couldn’t blame her: in the past, he had shied away from Kilmitten. This time, however, she was wrong. Earlier that month, after years of putting the house on and off the market, his parents had found a buyer: a guy who’d spent the last two decades in America and wasn’t bothered by Father Galvin’s death. Apparently, he spoke a lot about ‘potential’ and ‘development’, although his precise plans were unclear. Tom’s parents were moving to Kennedy Crescent, a few doors down from Flan. He wanted to visit before they left.

After the phone call with Nina, Tom had lain awake, thinking about Conor’s dad and Tess’s mam. How long had they been seeing each other? Weeks? Months? Years? And was it possible that …? Nah, he told himself. He was overthinking.

He ought to ring Conor and offer his congratulations. He wouldn’t get the chance this evening because he was going for a pint with his old college friend, Fergal. Tomorrow. He’d definitely do it tomorrow.