The carpet squelching beneath her feet, the high stools at the counter tossed aside, as if there had been a brawl. Shards of plasterboard dangling from the ceiling. The jade-green upholstery brackish from the firehoses, pieces of coloured glass scattered on the tables like boiled sweets. Behind the counter, bottles fizzling on the lino, oozing beer and ginger ale and stout. The shelves had collapsed. She began to lift pieces of debris, moving them aside with her hands and feet. She found the small plinth on which the whiskey dogs had sat; the Scottish border terrier was intact, a pair of chalky paws all that remained of the Westie. The bottle of green chartreuse. The Babycham fawn, which had under-eye circles of smoke.

Eamonn came in from the back, carrying a refuse sack. Have you managed to save anything? he said.

A few bits. She forced her chin up to look at him. I’m so sorry, Eamonn.

You might have done us a favour, he said. We were losing money.

People could have been killed.

They weren’t.

The bomb had been left in an empty beer keg to the left of the building. The police received an anonymous phone call fifteen minutes before it detonated and the bar had been evacuated. Eamonn had stood in the tunnel between two RUC men and watched it explode. Somebody’s looking after you, one remarked. Nobody gets that much notice. Fidel had not been seen in over a week and the Laverys were inclined to think he was behind the leniency, for that’s what it was; in a place like this, no deaths was a gift.

Do you have a plan? she asked him.

Aye. I’m going to put the place on the market and move the fuck away from here. Down south, maybe.

We’ll miss you.

Oh, you’re coming too, so I can keep an eye on you. Fucking headcase.

The door opened. A figure entered and paused for a moment, surveying the damage. The power had been turned off and it was hard to see. That’ll be the insurance assessor, said Eamonn, narrowing his eyes. I’ll deal with him, but be sure to exaggerate if he asks you any questions.

Cushla crouched and began to pick over the debris again.

Quite a mess for such a small quantity of explosives, a man’s voice said. She looked up to see who had spoken. Victor was standing over her, in his war-reporter jerkin with all the pockets. It had looked silly in Penny’s kitchen, but was appropriate attire for a bomb site. She got to her feet. Eamonn was behind him. I’ll be outside, he said.

Are you looking for the inside story? said Cushla, wiping her hands on the back of her jeans.