The others were already scattered round the park when Cushla and Davy went through the gates. The roundabout had been replaced and, aside from a smashed bottle beneath the see-saw, the playground was free of hazards. Gerry called the children back and he and Cushla recited a list of rules, adding fresh perils as they thought of them. Don’t go near the road. Don’t walk in front of the swings. Don’t walk behind the swings. Don’t double up on the see-saw. No more than four children on the roundabout at a time. Don’t go into the bushes. Don’t pick the flowers. Don’t come down the slide if another child is still on the end of it. Above all, said Gerry, do not, under any circumstances, enjoy yourselves. They stared at him for a moment and took off.

Davy chose a spot under a beech tree. She laid out the blanket she had taken from her car. Sunlight was lying in broken pieces on the grass, a few wilted bluebells clouding the ground.

It’s so late for them, she said. Dusty bluebells.

I know that song.

You know lots of songs, Davy McGeown. Most of which you shouldn’t know.

He laughed. Why are we not allowed to pick them? said Davy, fingering one.

Because it’s a public park and the flowers are here to be enjoyed by everybody. And because it’s supposed to be unlucky to bring them into a house. He looked alarmed, as though trying to remember if he had ever done so and might be responsible for the misfortune that had befallen his family.

Don’t look so worried. There are nice beliefs about them too. If you wear a wreath of bluebells you will be compelled to tell the truth. And if you turn a bluebell inside out without tearing it, you’ll get the one you love. She didn’t tell him that to walk in a bluebell patch would lead to a terrible enchantment. That a human who hears a bluebell ring will soon die.

Did your mummy tell you that? said Davy.

My mummy hates nature. My friend has a book about that kind of stuff.

Gerry was by the densest thicket of rhododendrons, the rest of the children surrounding him. Cushla and Davy left the blanket to see what they were looking at.

Jonathan was pointing at the remains of a fire. A couple of beer cans and a condom were strewn on the charred ground. Black magic, he said. They do that up the field at the back of our house. Devil worshipping and dirty stuff.