Cushla dialled the number for the pub. The line was engaged. She dialled Michael’s number, knowing it was a little early for him to have made his way to the flat, but she wanted to hear his voice. It rang out. She went upstairs and ran a shallow bath, washing her hair as she crouched in the water. She put on the jeans she had worn the previous day, a clean black top; he seemed to like her any way she showed up, and so she did not feel compelled to ransack her wardrobe. The Aran cardigan she had taken from his flat after the wedding was on the back of a chair. It had been daft of him to suggest she could move in, but it seemed reasonable now to add some clothes to the cold cream and toothbrush already there.

Downstairs, she tried the pub again. Leonardo answered. Why are you working? she said.

We’re full to the rafters, like.

Is my mummy there?

Hould on.

Eamonn’s voice. Are you coming down?

I wasn’t planning to.

You need to get her out of here, he said, and hung up.

The radio was on in the kitchen. Dead on arrival in hospital, the newsreader said, as she flicked the switch. What was Gina doing in the pub? Cushla had hoped to reach Belfast before rush hour, but if Gina put up any fight at all, Cushla was unlikely to arrive at the flat before six.

The car park was full. Inside, people who only came in occasionally were among the regulars. She went around the room, grabbing as many glasses as she could carry, bringing them behind the bar. Gina was on a stool, facing the television. She had a whiskey in her hand, her drink of choice for especially bad occasions. They were two deep at the counter, but the pub was strangely quiet. The air seemed to be trembling, as if they were all shaking their heads slowly.

What’s going on? said Cushla.

Ach, love, her mother said, and fell on her.

Eamonn came towards her. What’s wrong with her? she whispered to him.

Did you not hear?

Hear what?

Michael Agnew was shot dead this morning.