They were still giddy when they reached his house. It had been a few days since Cushla had spoken to Betty, so she went up the path with him. Tommy answered the door, in his own clothes. He put a closed fist to Davy’s temple. There’s a surprise for you inside, wee man, he said. Davy dropped his bag on the floor and went into the sitting room.

Tommy’s hair had grown and he had to lift his chin to look at Cushla, which made him appear belligerent. Hiya miss, he said.

You didn’t go back to school.

Nope.

Ah, Tommy. At least sit the exams.

I’m done with it all, he said. Come in and meet my father.

Cushla’s chest constricted. Michael said she had a face that showed exactly what she was thinking. What if Seamie saw revulsion in her? But Tommy had turned and she had no choice but to follow him.

The air was blue with cigarette smoke. Seamie McGeown was in the sort of armchair you saw in hospitals, his back to her. His head had been shaved for surgery and the downy regrowth reminded her of Davy’s when he’d had an extreme haircut. Mandy was on the settee and Betty was in front of Seamie, perched on the edge of a stool from the kitchen, as if she might fly up. Come on over, she said.

Tommy stepped on to the hearth of the unlit fire to let Cushla pass. Above Seamie’s right ear his skull was slightly concave, the edge of the dent marked by a crescent-shaped scar notched with horizontal dashes where the stitches had been.

This is Miss Lavery, Davy’s teacher, said Betty. She’s been awful good to us the last while. Her voice was loud and cheery, as if speaking to a deaf person. Her mouth was grim.

Without thinking, Cushla thrust out her hand. Seamie looked at it and slowly turned up his palms. The wounds were still wet. Other scars – crude red lines – travelled up from the heels of his hands, disappearing under the unbuttoned cuffs of his shirt. Cushla thought she might pass out. She took in a deep breath to steady herself and glanced at Betty, who shook her head almost imperceptibly, allowing her the moment. There was a box of cigarettes on the arm of Seamie’s chair. He began footering at it, trying to take one without bending his fingers. Cushla was making things worse by watching, and she was relieved when Betty wagged a thumb in the direction of the kitchen.

A twin-tub washing machine was connected to the sink, a fresh-breeze scent of washing powder wafting from it. There was a nylon shopping bag on the draining board, a bar of Sunlight soap.

You must be glad to have him home, said Cushla.