The others came down at eight, entering the kitchen shyly. Gina busied herself with making tea and toast, scrambling eggs. Davy’s face had been rubbed with a cloth but there was still a skiff of soot on his temple. Mandy ate a bowl of Rice Krispies, staring at each spoonful grimly before putting it in her mouth. Cushla stood at the worktop with a mug of tea and the Yellow Pages, looking for numbers that might be useful. The Housing Executive. The police. Social services, as a last resort. The front door opened, causing the kitchen door to swing. It was Eamonn, his keys hitting the hall table with a clang that made Davy jump.

You pair, Eamonn said, wagging two fingers between Cushla and Gina. A word.

They followed him to the hall.

They have to go, he said.

I’m going to try to get something sorted out for them this morning. They won’t be here for long, just a few days.

Eamonn swung round at her, his hand open, as if he was going to hit her a slap. Gina’s hand flew up and caught it.

They leave now, he said, looming into Cushla’s face. You stupid cunt.

He took his keys from the console and made for the door, his fury so righteous he was almost graceful.

What do I do? said Cushla, as his car revved outside.

Do as he says, said Gina. And fast.

Cushla cleared the table, the breakfast things rattling in her hands, and went to the sink.

The ten o’clock news.

An eighteen-year-old man has been charged with the murder of Michael Agnew, the prominent Belfast barrister shot dead at his home last week.

A man, Betty said and began to weep. Gina went to her, placing her hand on her shoulder and speaking into her ear. Betty looked around the table at her husband and children as she listened, then wiped the back of her hand across her face. Cushla met Davy’s eyes for a moment. She turned her back to him and squirted Fairy liquid into the sink.

The gentle bustle of the town. Trays of bananas outside the greengrocer’s, unripe to the point of DayGlo. The giant cardboard ABBA in the window of the record shop, its Kodachrome bright faded to shades of blue and green. A trolley broken free from the chain outside the supermarket, spinning towards the road. The baker’s fat, floury hand, placing a final meringue nest on top of a pyramid. Cushla was aware, as she drove, of the intensity with which the McGeowns were looking out the window. Faces pressed to the glass, as if for the last time.