Betty, said his mother, by way of introduction.

He would have been quicker walking, said Cushla, but he never fully dried out from the drenching he got this morning. I had to call in home and it took longer than I thought it would.

Her mummy’s not a bit well, said Davy.

Oh? said Betty.

She could hardly walk.

Betty’s eyes widened. Away on, Davy, she said, scanning the street. Her face softened into a smile as Tommy came up the path.

How was your day, love? Betty said.

Grand, said Tommy, raising his chin briefly in Cushla’s direction.

Betty began rummaging in the wide pocket of her tabard. You’re wheezing, she said.

Tommy had grabbed Davy and was jabbing his fingers between his ribs. How’s Wee Man No Height? he said.

Davy wriggled and cried out. Father Slattery was in, he said.

Father Slaughter, said Tommy.

Watch it, you, said Betty, handing him an inhaler.

He gave a small laugh and sprayed it into his mouth, closing his eyes and holding his breath until his hands began to tremble. The rest of his body was still, almost serene. He exhaled slowly. Let me guess, he said. ‘You’re going to hell for being half-heathen and living in that estate.’ He was watching Cushla as he imitated the priest’s voice.

Good impersonation, said Cushla, struggling to hold his gaze.

He told us a story, didn’t he, miss? said Davy. About a wee girl who got cut with a bottle.

Oh yeah? said Tommy. There was such scorn in his tone she felt she had to get away from him.

I’d better head on, she said, hating the squeak that had come into her voice. I’m late for work.

She walked down the path, the locks turning behind her. In her car, she glanced at the house. The net curtain on the downstairs window had been drawn aside and Tommy was watching her leave, the letters on the garden wall deepening her sense of disquiet. He hadn’t told his mother what happened on his way home. Davy hadn’t mentioned it either. Tommy was right to have laughed at her. She had sat on her arse and let Slattery terrorise his little brother with jibes he had been subjected to himself at that age.

Eamonn had been expecting her at four. It was a quarter past. As she rounded the bend before home she thought of her mother, slack-jawed on the toilet. She parked across the driveway and ran indoors and up the stairs. Gina was unconscious, right arm flung dramatically across the pillows on Cushla’s father’s side, the thinness of the limb a worrying contrast with the boozy bloat of her face. Her breath was coming in raspy, irregular sighs. Cushla would have to stay with her. She went downstairs and dialled the number of the pub.

Eamonn was livid. I didn’t ask you to work, you offered, he said. I have Leonardo here ready to cover for you. I’m going to have to keep him, for all the use he’ll be.