She looked at the door. He had closed it when they came in. He had not taken a single note. There hadn’t been a sound, not so much as a footstep on the corridor, as if he’d been left to do what he liked.

I haven’t done anything.

He sat back. And then he smiled. Thanks for your cooperation, Miss Lavery.

Are you letting me go?

You were free to leave at any time.

He walked along the corridor behind her, soles slapping lightly off the floor. He reached in front of her to open the fire door, making her dip under his arm to avoid touching him. His shirt smelled of mown grass. She walked out of the station and into the sunlight. As she crossed High Street, she fancied that a curtain twitched at Slattery’s window. Along the school railings, left at the corner, past the chipper. No basket, no keys, no car, as if she’d been divested of who she was.

Why had they been following Michael? Standing outside his flat, taking photographs. Noting the cars that passed his house. Was it because of her, or had they been shadowing him before she came along? There was something harried about him, in the final weeks, that she had put down to the strain of moving between two homes, two women. She had spoken to Michael about Tommy but, aside from stupidly saying his name on the phone, was sure she had never mentioned Michael to the boy, or to any of the McGeowns. It had seemed that her affair with Michael and her befriending of Davy had been running concurrently, but separately. Now she could see that they were twisted together, each informing the course of the other. One by one, she undid each event, each decision, each choice. If Davy had remembered to put on a coat. If Seamie McGeown had stayed on the dole for another month and not found himself alone on a dark street, a few pints of stout in his bladder. If Michael Agnew had not walked through the door of the pub on a quiet night in February in his white shirt. If Betty had persuaded Tommy to stay in school. What if she was the conditional clause? What if Michael Agnew would still be alive if he had not met Cushla Lavery?

She had reached the house. She pressed the doorbell. Gina let her in and stood twisting her hands. Eamonn had phoned. Twice. Half the town saw her going into the RUC station and the other half saw her coming out, the hair hanging round her. She was to stay out of the bar. Her voice petered out and she was looking beyond Cushla. There’s somebody outside, she said.

Cushla turned the handle and opened the front door. Slattery and Bradley were on the step.