Cushla was filled with a strange euphoria. We were being followed, she said. The RUC have photographs. Of me in his car. Of us in his flat. I was interviewed by a peeler who spun records at a disco in the school. He told me if I didn’t take my clothes off he’d hold me for seven days.

Dear God. I should have gone with you, Gina said quietly, her eyes downcast. There was a faint scent of gin.

What am I going to do about Davy?

There’s nothing you can do about any of it. But you can’t take to the bed for the rest of your life. I’m going to run you a bath and you’re going to dress in something other than that bloody cardigan. It’s practically walking about by itself.

Gina left the room. Cushla read the letter again and put it back in the envelope, placing it on the nightstand with the other things. In the bathroom, she stripped and climbed into the tub. The water was deep. She shampooed her hair and bent her knees, lying back, hair and suds floating like seaweed and spume. She reclined against the cold enamel. Her body had changed, bones jutting at her hips, stomach concave. She liked how it looked: pale and empty, the outside reflecting the inside.

When she went downstairs, Gina was mopping the floor. There was a wheaten loaf on the table, a slice of butter in its Pyrex dish. Shelled boiled eggs, slices of cooked ham from the butcher. Two custard tarts and two gravy rings. Gina left the mop protruding unsteadily from the bucket and crossed the kitchen to the table. She sat heavily. Eat, she said.

They were like a tag team, taking turns to fall apart.

Cushla spooned the filling from a custard tart and sipped at a cup of tea. She pulled her basket towards her. The camera was still there. She removed the film and held it between her thumb and finger, looking at it for a moment before leaving the house.

She turned the key in the ignition and nothing happened. On the third attempt it seemed to start then puttered to silence. She tried once more, worried she had flooded the engine, but it shuddered to life. She drove down the road, parking by the parochial house. She found herself half-running along the footpath, her head down. There were BACK TO SCHOOL stickers in the draper’s window, mannequin children wearing the uniform of the Protestant schools. Someone had dressed Johnny the Jig in a blue anorak. In the chemist’s, she left the film to be developed, and was aware of the assistant hesitating, registering her name as she spelled it.