The day was bright and gusty. Before the entrance to the estate, a figure in a leather jacket, a sausage bag over his shoulder, was walking alone along the footpath. There was something in his gait – too purposeful for a young lad – that made her slow to look at him. It was Tommy McGeown. She held her hand up and he stared at her as if he did not know her, and kept walking.

The barracks on the right, the trees lush with leaves, as if a net of camouflage had been thrown over the messes and family quarters. She drove on and turned left in the direction of the village. The gorse flowers were sparse and deepened to a yellow that was almost sulphurous. On a bend, she had to tug the wheel to avoid colliding with a motorbike that was lumbering up the hill, and dropped to third gear to gain some control over the car. Over herself.

Flags were fluttering from telegraph poles a mile from the village, festooning the place when she reached the crossroads. Along the verge leading to his house a grey Land Rover, a marked police car. A couple of cars so nondescript she wondered were they Special Branch vehicles. Three men in uniform by the front door, three in civilian clothes on the driveway, one with a camera round his neck, smoking a cigarette. Tape she had seen stretched between the gates on the news bulletin was lying on the ground. She was so distracted by the scene she almost knocked down the RUC man who had stepped on the road and was gesturing for her to wind down her window.

Are you a resident? he said.

I just came out for a drive, she said, afraid he would ask for her name.

There’s nothing to see here. Keep going and turn left then left again, he said, tapping the roof to let her go. She held the wheel tight, checking the speedometer sometimes lest she draw further attention to herself. She almost missed the lay-by and had to brake so hard the car filled with the smell of hot rubber.

She sat on the bonnet, lighting a cigarette. The ditch had dried to a muddy trough.