Your average innocent guy whose girlfriend’s been murdered, he’s gonna picture the killer as a foaming animal who deserves seven kinds of electric chair. Rory can’t afford to. ‘That makes sense, yeah,’ I say, taking notes and nodding. ‘So what does he do?’

‘If he can’t be with Aislinn, at least he needs more material for the daydreams. Something to feed them. She’s mentioned where she works, so he starts hanging around outside there, to see her come out. One evening he follows her home.’ Some new charge is revving up underneath Rory’s voice, powering it, swelling it. I don’t need to nudge him, not any more. ‘And once he knows where she lives, it becomes an addiction. He can’t stay away. He tries, but every few days he finds himself straying towards Stoneybatter, before he realises he’s going to do it. He finds himself wandering around the streets thinking about her feet touching those same pavements; buying chocolate bars he doesn’t want, just to shop where she does. He finds himself outside her house, watching her while she makes cups of herbal tea and does her ironing.’

He’s keeping close to the truth, staying parallel, almost touching. Smart choice: it makes the story ring almost true.

‘He gets used to it, being out there in the dark, curling his toes to keep them from freezing. Watching the light in her windows. Imagining himself turning the key in the door and stepping into that warmth, and her coming to kiss him. Imagining the two of them cooking dinner together in that bright kitchen. He finds a routine, a kind of equilibrium; a kind of contentment. He could live like that indefinitely.’

Rory has changed. No more timid little gerbil. He’s sitting forward, hands moving in fast, clean, confident gestures; that charge under his voice has built till every corner of the room hums with it. For the first time I can see why Aislinn went for him. This shite is the last thing I’d want in a guy, but it’s got power. Rory has risen up out of his beige huddle and become someone who would make you turn to look when he came through a door, and keep looking.

‘And then,’ he says. ‘Saturday night. This man went to watch Aislinn, as usual, but what he saw was different. He saw her all dressed up and made up, glowing like a treasure chest. He saw her making dinner, not just for herself, but for two people; taking two wineglasses out of the cupboard and bringing them into the sitting room. He saw her singing into her corkscrew, dancing, shaking her hair around and laughing at herself. He saw how happy she was. How she couldn’t wait.’