Michael’s car was close to the steps, as if he’d pulled up in a hurry. She touched the bonnet. Heat, a smell of burnt dust. She rang the bell, reluctant to use the key. He opened the door to let her in, leaning to kiss her, but she ducked past him and into the sitting room. The holdall was in the middle of the floor, bulging with fresh laundry. He toed it aside.

The room smelled of beeswax polish. The grate was empty, the hearth washed, brasses bright.

Mrs Coyle was in, said Cushla.

She was.

How’s her son?

A bloody disaster. He wasn’t in the IRA when he was arrested, but he probably is now. Tea?

Yeah, she said, and followed him into the kitchen. He filled the kettle and began to unpack a bag of groceries. Glass jars of grapefruit juice, cans of Scotch broth and cock-a-leekie soup. Lime marmalade and ginger cake. An Ulster linen tea towel printed with rows of Grenadier guardsmen was hanging from the handle of a drawer.

He loaded a tray and brought it to the table. Thanks for coming, he said. He looked physically uncomfortable, like he did when his shoulder was acting up. She wished he would shift in his seat, rearrange himself, but he didn’t move.

I can’t stay long, she said. Eamonn’s expecting me by six.

Sunday was appalling, he said.

What was appalling? That I turned up? I didn’t think about her much, you know, she said. Your wife. And when I did I pictured someone else. A wizened wee hag, or some rough-looking ould doll who needed her roots done.

I would prefer not to talk about her, he said.

She held my fucking hand, Michael. What are you at? You looked like a normal, happy family.

My wife has problems.

What’s wrong with her?

He said his wife was an alcoholic. That she was being treated for depression. That he went home sometimes and found her curled on the floor. That she had been admitted to hospital over a month ago for another course of electric shocks. That sometimes she was well enough after treatment to do things. That their son had finished his A levels and he had brought them out for lunch.

Was that why you were able to see me so often? Because she was in hospital and your son was at school.

Yes.

Have you had lots of affairs?

Three.

Jesus. Including me?

Apart from you. I don’t consider this an affair.

What the hell is it, then?

It’s different.

A laugh came out of her, an ugly sound. Pull the other one, Michael, she said.

He poured himself a whiskey and knocked it back. You don’t believe a word I say.