Relax, he said. That time I phoned you said ‘Michael?’

Right, she said, recovering her composure. Do you want a cup of tea or something?

Aye. Thanks.

He followed her into the kitchen. So this is the mansion our kid keeps talking about, he said, as she flicked on the kettle and took down mugs.

She almost said it was hardly a mansion, but was aware of how big the house was in comparison with the one in which he lived. You weren’t at school today, she said instead.

Yeah. Not planning to go back, either. The sun was low. In the light his eyes were almost violet in colour, so gorgeous it was an effort to look away from him.

You’re so close to the end, Tommy. Would you not suffer it for the next few weeks? Sit the exams at least.

They’re saying my daddy’s injuries are life-changing. He’ll not be able to work.

Jesus, she said softly. But if you get a couple of A levels you’ll be able to earn more money. Maybe go to university. Have prospects.

He laughed. What prospects would they be?

She could not argue with him. Her father had often reminded her that they were lucky to have a business, to be sheltered from the sectarian bigotry of the job market. It’s good to have an education, Tommy, she said.

You in the Alliance Party or something? he said.

She laughed. No. I vote for them, though.

You’re joking.

Tactical voting. To keep Paisley’s lot out.

Nothing’s going to change that way, he said. Anyway, my uncle says he can give me a job. He was peering at her cheekbone.

She felt her hand go up. She wiped the place he was looking at with her fingertips. Did I get it? she said.

No. He began to reach towards her face, but withdrew his hand.

She went to the hall mirror. There was a grey-brown smear where her cheekbone met her ear, the stuff she had scrubbed from her hands earlier. She buffed at it with her cuff and looked into the kitchen. Tommy was standing with his backside against the sink, watching her.

12

12

The tails of his white shirt were flopping over his trousers, damp patches clinging to his underarms. Cushla followed him to the bedroom, carrying her basket. His bed, sheets snapped tightly into hospital corners. Two white shirts hanging from the door of the wardrobe, pressed crisp like paper. The holdall open on the velvet armchair, pyjamas on top, fully buttoned, sleeves folded behind as if they were on display in a shop. It was not the work of a slattern.

Good day? he said, pulling the shirt over his head and dropping it on the floor in the corner.

Grand, she said.