She went back the way she had come, bypassing the town, and along the dual carriageway. At the roundabout, she turned left, following the perimeter fence of the barracks and then making the series of turns that took her on to the hill road. The summer had been warm. There was a rancid lushness about the hedgerows, the gorse past flowering, its foliage almost black. She pulled into the lay-by and opened the paper. There was a small mention of Tommy’s trial on the front page, a note directing the reader to a double-page spread. The feature included an opinion column on the peril of working in the judiciary, as a couple of judges had been shot the previous year; an article noting that most of those appearing in court on terror charges were under twenty, and condemning the men who recruited teenagers to avoid getting their own hands dirty; and an account of the trial in the centre. Tommy’s image was a mugshot, almost pixellated, like the ones she had seen in Michael’s folder. He had the lean, bold look he’d worn the last time she saw him, but his eyes gave him away. They were bright with fear. Tommy had refused to recognise the court, offered no defence, answered no questions. He was convicted on the basis of evidence described as forensic, circumstantial and damning. He had been working on a house opposite Michael’s, repairing a path. It began to rain and, knowing the family was out, Michael asked the boy in for a cup of tea. Cushla pictured him moving between the kettle and the sink, taking down cups, hunting for biscuits. The kindly way he would have spoken to an awkward boy like Tommy, trying to put him at ease. What must Tommy have thought as he sat there? Had he warmed to the man who had asked him in, had he answered his questions, laughed at his attempts at jokes? Had Michael asked him about school, told him he had a son his age? How long had Tommy sat there before his eyes came to rest on a photograph on the dresser of Michael in his wig and gown, wrongly deducing that the man who was making him a cup of tea was a judge? Had he seen the opportunity then or had it come to him later, when he was telling his cousin about his working day? Tommy McGeown with all his rage. Desperate to belong. The thrill he must have felt when he was handed a gun and told to go back and kill him.