Leonardo’s real name was Terry. He was an out-of-work painter and decorator. The only aspect of the job for which he showed any enthusiasm was bringing in the stock, because he could help himself to bottles of cider when no one was looking.

Cushla normally played down Gina’s drinking, not to shield Eamonn – for as far back as she could remember their mother had been prone to bouts of drunken melancholy – but out of a sense of failure; she was supposed to be looking after Gina yet was unable to keep her sober. She found herself telling him everything. Gina had been necking from the bottle. The overflowing ashtray was surrounded by cylinders of burnt-out Silk Cuts. The lipstick she had at some point attempted to apply adhered mostly to her teeth. Cushla remembered Betty’s face when Davy said Gina could hardly walk. She had not looked particularly surprised. For all Gina’s efforts at hiding her drinking, trying to stay out of the bar, never leaving the house without her make-up and fur coat, people knew. There must have been a whiff off her in the hairdresser’s, in the butcher’s. At the altar when she opened her mouth for Communion.

You’re exaggerating, said Eamonn.

She’s a mess, said Cushla, and I can’t leave her.

Look, I need to go. There’s a few in already.

Who’s there?

Minty’s here. And Jimmy. And your babysitter from last night.

Cushla replaced the receiver and looked in the hall mirror. The woman she was willing to be for Michael Agnew was looking back at her. Raging.

3

Gerry arrived at the door in a three-quarter-length leather coat in an orangey shade of tan and a manufactured musk so thick Cushla could almost see it.

You’ve the place nice, he said, taking in the heavy furniture, the flock wallpaper. It was so obvious it was an older person’s house that Cushla laughed.

It’s my mother’s house.

I see. Is she here?

The sitting-room door flew open. Gina came out and gripped Gerry Devlin’s hands in hers. Cushla watched, horrified, as her mother turned the smile on him, her back stiffening to show off her bust, one leg slightly forward. She began asking him questions. Where he was from, his mother’s maiden name.

My mother died when I was fourteen, said Gerry.

Ach dear.

She kept at him until she found a connection – his aunt was a neighbour of Gina’s sister – and winked at Cushla as they left.

By the car he took off his coat and laid it carefully across the back ledge. She watched him and felt pity. There was a bag of eight-track cartridges on the passenger seat. He murmured apologies and selected one, slotting it into the player. Soft Celtic rock filled the car as he drove off. He whistled along and turned down the road towards Belfast.

What kind of music do you like? he said.

Jazz. She didn’t know why she was trying to make him feel inferior.