The traffic on the by-pass was light, schools closed for the summer, the morning rush hour over. At the roundabout she turned left and came along the road, past the boarding school where Michael had watched the hanged boy’s body borne away on a stretcher, where his son Dermot had been when his mother was getting electric shocks and his father was fucking Cushla. The road narrowed and the terraces got tighter, the flags and bunting seeming to multiply. Cushla wondered if Betty had grown up in one of those houses, if she’d slept against a gable wall dabbed with a mural of the Somme or the Ulster Solemn League and Covenant. They passed the scrap of waste ground where Seamie had been left for dead. Beside her, he didn’t flinch, but she glanced in the rear-view mirror and saw Betty’s face. A picture of utter despair.

They were at the perimeter of the Catholic enclave in which Seamie’s brother lived. An RUC Land Rover was parked across the road, and the shipyard cranes towered over the rooftops. Betty got out and helped Seamie from the passenger seat, leading him across the pavement. He put his wounded hand against a wall and looked about him blankly.

Betty came back to the car and thanked her. Cushla began to apologise but the woman held up her hand. Mandy murmured goodbye and slunk out, going to the wall where her father was waiting. Davy was still in the car, leaning between the gap.

Jesus, Davy, come here, she said. He clambered over the gearstick and on to the passenger seat.

I’ll write you a letter, miss. I know your address off by heart.

Do you promise?

Swear to God.

You’re such a great boy, Davy McGeown. It’s been the joy of my life getting to know you.

He leapt across and put his arms around her neck. She held him so tight she was worried she was hurting him.

He got out of the car and she pulled on to the road. She looked in the rear-view mirror. Seamie, Betty and Mandy had begun walking along the footpath. Davy was standing with his back to them, a hand held up, watching Cushla’s car drive away.