Wouldn’t you think they could have given them a house at the front? said Gina as they passed through the grey quadrants. She had been born above a pub in 1920, during the first Troubles, days after her parents had been burnt-out by their Protestant neighbours. Wherever she went, she looked for an escape route.

Two women in geometric-patterned housecoats were standing in a garden three doors up from the McGeowns’. Cushla said hello. They didn’t reply.

Tommy answered the door, hands on the hips of washed-out grey cords, a thin acrylic jumper with an argyle pattern barely reaching the belt. My mummy’s not here, he said.

Take them bags off our Cushla, and let us in, for God’s sake, before I drop this pot, said Gina.

They followed him into the house. Davy was on a rust-coloured velour settee, snuggled into Mandy, his sister. He got up and stood uncertainly in front of Cushla. My daddy was the victim of an attack, he said, as if they were in class and he was giving her The News.

Cushla dropped to her knees and took his hands. I know, Davy, she said. He looked disappointed, as if he had expected more from her.

The kitchen was spotless but claustrophobically cluttered. Bleach-faded worktops stacked with Tupperware. A Formica table pushed into a corner, five small stools under it, one sticking out. A clothes horse hung with socks and jumpers and towels partly blocking the back door, the wall above it clouded where it met the ceiling, as though an attempt had been made to wipe away mildew.

It’s good drying weather, said Gina. You could hang those outside.

The neighbours keep cutting down our washing line, said Mandy.

They throw dog’s dirt over the fence, said Davy.

Charming, said Gina. She was at the hob, stirring. Mandy was setting the table.

Davy unpacked the bags. When he saw something he liked, he held it up to show the others. Are you better in yourself, Mrs Lavery? he said, waving a packet of pink wafer biscuits. Gina pursed her lips and began buttering a stack of bread. Cushla had to suck in her cheeks to keep from laughing. Tommy, Mandy and Davy sat down to eat. Gina stood over them, ordering them to have second helpings, teasing them for not eating their crusts. Cushla sometimes thought Gina overbearing in company, but this evening she was grateful to her.

Cushla gave Tommy her phone number. He wrote it in a small black notebook that he took from his back pocket. He stood in the hall to see them out, looking beyond them at the teenagers she had seen surround him, who were now sitting on their wall. One of the boys was striking matches and flicking them on to the path.

Fuck this, Tommy said and took a step towards the door.

Gina caught his arm. You’ll go back inside, she said.

They’ve come to taunt us, Tommy said, tears springing into his eyes.