There was a postcard on the tray, an image of a straight, red metal bridge straddling a river, a cathedral rising on the bend beyond. Gerry and his friends had left France and driven to Girona. He had written, Bridge designed by Gustave Eiffel, a dry-run for the tower. There was a letter too, in a blue Basildon Bond envelope. Her address was printed in a hand she didn’t recognise, but as she opened the folded page, her heart leapt. It was from Davy. Before Gerry left, she had asked him to find out where the boy was, but short of knocking on doors in Short Strand, he didn’t know where to look. Once, Cushla had driven towards the east and made it within sight of the spot at which she had dumped them. But the flags and bunting on one side were too florid, the walls on the other too oppressive, and she drove away, the panic on her again, afraid she was being followed. Davy had laid out the letter the way she had shown them in school. Dear Miss Lavery, I hope you are keeping well. She smiled to herself, but as she read on her joy faded. They hadn’t found a new house. Davy had been placed with a foster family. Mandy was somewhere else.

Who’s the letter from? Gina said, coming into the room and lifting the tray.

Cushla handed it to her. Gina replaced the tray and sat on the bed to read it. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, she said.

I did that, said Cushla.

What do you mean?

I asked Bradley to help them and he reported Betty to social services.

That’s not your fault.

It’s all my fault.

I think you should see Dr O’Hehir, said Gina.

So he can drug me to the eyeballs with whatever pills he gives you?

You don’t eat. You haven’t left the house in weeks. Maybe you could do with a wee prescription.

I’m not actually mad, you know. I’ve lost my job. I’m barred from our pub. The whole town thinks I’m a Republican sympathiser. There’s a limited number of places I can go.

This carry-on, said Gina, has to stop.

OK, said Cushla. Maybe I’ll go for a dander down High Street. I might call into the police and ask if they’ve found any evidence against me. Then I’m going to buy a 99 and have a chinwag with Fidel and his ma.

Gina put the letter on the nightstand. It’s not your fault. And Michael wasn’t your fault either.

You knew?

I saw you getting into his car.

Why did you not say anything?

Because I was hoping to God it would play itself out. And Gerry’s a nice wee fella, but I didn’t fall for that, she said, sitting on the edge of the bed.