Bradley was on the stage with Father Slattery. He took a step forward and tugged the lapels of his brown suit once, as if he was about to launch into a stand-up comedy routine. You will have heard that the father of one of our pupils is in hospital, he said. It is not a time for idle gossip. The best thing we can do is say a prayer.

Slattery moved in front of the headmaster and the children put their hands together, in readiness for Our Fathers, Hail Marys, Glory Bes. Hands up who has heard of Romper Room? he said.

A girl from P4 raised hers. It’s a TV programme, she said. Miss Helen gets kids to sing wee songs.

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.