Slattery crossed the classroom with silent steps. He paused behind Davy, then turned and moved on, coming to stand in front of Cushla’s desk. She snapped her fingers at the boys and they scuttled to their seats. Slattery began to recite the Act of Contrition. The children did not join in, afraid, she suspected, of making a mistake.

They don’t know their prayers, he said, eyeing Cushla slyly. What else do they not know? An involuntary tut came out of her, and she sat in her chair, folding her arms.

What’s the first line of the Confiteor? said Slattery. No one answered. The Mysteries of the Rosary? Still no hand flew up. He began reciting them in his slow, mournful voice. Joyful. Sorrowful. Glorious. Beautiful words intended to terrify them. He stepped towards Davy and pointed a slender finger into his face. What age are you? he said. Davy looked confused, as if it was a trick question. Surely to God you know what age you are, said Slattery.

Seven, said Davy.

Seven. I want to tell you a story about a wee girl not much older than yourself, he said, hands clasped lightly at his chest. She was sent out for a message by her mother, he went on, raising his hands, turning them palms-up for emphasis, like he did at Mass. Have any of you been sent out on a wee message by your mother? Some of the children nodded. A gang of men followed her home, he said. They pulled her into an entry. Grown men. They did what they wanted with her and when they were finished they carved UVF on to her chest with a broken bottle.

Was the wee girl seven? Davy said. He was working at his pencil, flaking paint from its chewed end.

It doesn’t matter what age she was. What matters is that the Protestants hate us, said Slattery, landing his hands flat on Davy’s desk. The thud made the child jump. You’re one of the McGeowns, aren’t you?

Yes.

You’d need to be listening more than anyone, living in that estate.

The bell rang for break. Its bleat normally made the children push their chairs back and take out their snacks, but they sat on. Laughter and shouts were coming from outside as the other pupils streamed into the playground. A football bounced on the tarmac near the window, momentarily distracting Slattery.

Cushla went to the door and flung it open. OK, class, out you go, she said, but they didn’t move. Go! she said, and they rushed past her.

How’s your mother? said Slattery.

Fine, said Cushla. She stalked out and along the dim corridor, leaving the priest alone in the empty room.

Gerry Devlin, who taught the other P3 class, was by the kettle. He had only joined the staff in September and had already taken over training the school choir, writing lyrical poems for peace that he set to music, showing Cushla up with his enthusiasm. A watched kettle, he said.