Cushla’s hand began to pat against her mother’s back, as if she was winding a baby, her body knowing what to do while her mind skittered. God be good to him, Gina was saying, he didn’t deserve it. Cushla untangled herself and went to the sink, her movements stiff, like a mechanical toy that needed to be wound into motion again. She ran the cold tap at full flow to drown the platitudes and expressions of horror being muttered around the room. The voices became indistinct. She took a tankard, pumped it over the inverted bottle brush, placed it in the glasswasher, repeating the process until the tray was full. She was aware that someone was speaking to her and lifted her head, looking along the bar for the source of the words, but no one was paying her attention. She bent to the sink again, wringing a cloth and using it to blot away the sudsy water with which she had flooded the draining board. Eamonn touched her arm. She looked at his hand and walked away. In the doorway her legs stopped. She looked at her feet, willing them to carry her, but her hips were twisting to her right, as if Michael was beside her, close enough to graze her skin with his arm. She glanced back at the bar. Eamonn was at the end of the counter, watching her. She pushed open the door and stumbled across the car park. In the tunnel, a bleachy stench of urine, cans rolling in the draught, wisps of sweet wrappers flying up at her legs. On the esplanade, blue water, bluer hills across the lough.

Footsteps behind her.

What’s going on? said Eamonn.

I was on my way to see him, she said.

To see who? said Eamonn, peering at her, looking at her eyes, her chin. When had she started crying?

Michael, she said, and a squall of grief left her, an inhuman sound.

Eamonn’s face began to alter, as if a shadow had fallen across it. No, he said. No way.

How can he be dead? she wailed, and felt herself spiral downwards.

Fuck, said Eamonn, jerking her upright and shoving her against the rail that overlooked the lough. You were seeing Michael Agnew? Was that why you were in here every other night?

A woman passed them with a Jack Russell on a lead. Eamonn let go of Cushla, his hands moving to his hips, and stood facing the water. Who else knows?

Cushla felt panic rise. Nobody, she said.

Are you sure?

Yeah.

They’d fucking better not. Now pull yourself together and get back behind that bar.

I want to go home.

Eamonn slammed his hands on to the railing and swung back. Are you fucking joking? he said. You are going to walk in there as if someone you hardly knew died.