Do you know what else a romper room is? Giggles, now. Cushla waited for Bradley to do something, but he just stood there.

Loyalist murder gangs have romper rooms, said Slattery. In the backs of their bars, their social clubs.

Some of the other teachers had begun to shift on their feet. Gerry Devlin stepped away and began walking along the edge of the room, slinging the strap of his guitar around his neck, a crios belt woven in shades of red and yellow and green. He went up the steps and on to the stage. Bradley leaned forward and said something to him, but Gerry kept walking and stood by the priest. He swiped his thumb downwards across the strings of his guitar and began to sing. His song for peace was even worse than Cushla remembered. Bad rhymes that didn’t fit the tune, slabbered in clichés about love and forgiveness. At first there was just Gerry’s voice, and the trill of his pupils. It was excruciating, but anything was better than listening to Slattery. Take away the hate and violence, Cushla found herself singing, bring love into our hearts. By the end, everyone had joined in. Everyone except the two men on the stage behind Gerry Devlin. Bradley looked like he was waiting for permission to leave. Slattery was motionless, his eyes on Gerry’s back.

Afterwards, Cushla made her way through the lines of children to where Gerry was standing by the wall.

Thanks for the moral support, he said.

I couldn’t let you make a dick of yourself all on your lonesome. Fair play to you, Gerry Devlin. You’re the only one had the balls to shut that lunatic up.

A scent of poached chicken and root vegetables had replaced the stale smoke that normally greeted her when she got home from school. The soup appeared when Gina was trying not to drink. She was at the hob, scraping chopped parsley from a board into the stockpot. She had been to the hairdresser, gone a shade lighter. Her skin had a peachy lustre.

You look lovely, said Cushla.

It’s called Viking, said her mother, lifting her hand to her temple. There was the faintest tremor.

It suits you.

They were talking about that McGeown man in the hairdresser’s, said Gina. The dumpy one from the estate said she’d often seen him staggering home, full. Bad bitch. As if that’s an excuse for beating him to a pulp.

One of his kids is in my class. I had him here with me a couple of weeks ago. Do you remember him?

Of course I remember, said Gina, the answer coming so fast it was clear she didn’t.

She could hardly walk, Cushla wanted to say, that’s what the child said about you. I should go up to see them, she said.

There’s enough soup to feed an army, said Gina, crossing to the overstocked pantry. They had run out of food towards the end of the Ulster Workers’ Council strike the previous year and over her dead body would bastard loyalists leave them hungry again. She filled two shopping bags and they left for the estate.