Cushla put her arms around her mother and held her. Gina normally accepted such advances stiffly but, to Cushla’s horror, her body yielded. Cushla pulled her closer, feeling wretched. I’m sorry, Mummy. I’ll be in all weekend, she said, knowing as the words came out of her mouth that if Michael wanted to see her she would leave Gina alone without hesitation.

Go on out, love, said Gina, patting Cushla’s back. There’s no point the pair of us being miserable.

A boy carrying a violin case came out of the house next to Michael’s, followed by a woman with short blonde hair. She looked at Cushla’s car – it was notable among the saloons and estates in the other driveways – then looked at Cushla, her expression one of amusement. How many women had visited him here? She took off across the gravel, kicking it up in her haste.

He was in a thin jumper with suede patches on the elbows, a brushed-cotton shirt with a soft collar. Mr Reid clothes. He watched her blink the image away. What does that look mean? he said.

She pushed up on her toes to find his lips. Nothing, she said.

He took her hand and brought her inside. A window was open, a magnolia branch fingering the glass. The olive-green curtains had faded to khaki where the sun had touched them. An attempt had been made at tidying the papers on the table and the whiskey decanter was full.

He told her to put on some music and went to the kitchen. She bent over the stereo and flipped through records she didn’t recognise, jazz and classical and blues. She lowered the needle to the LP that was already on the turntable and stood in the archway.

Do you want to talk about it? he said.

Seamie McGeown got out of hospital today. Tommy brought me in to meet him.

Oh dear, he said. The suck of the fridge door, the soft dunt of it closing. That must have been awful.

She told him about the wounds on Seamie’s hands, weeping like stigmata.

One hears about these attacks on the news, the shootings and bombings. But I think one has to hear or see the details to appreciate the suffering.

Do you come across a lot of that stuff in court? she said.

Yes. The evidence can be horrific.

Is that what’s in those folders?

In some of them, yes.

He asked how the children were, and she told him Davy was the entertainer, Mandy matronly. That Tommy was angry.

Poor kid, he said. There are Tommy McGeowns appearing in front of me every day of the week. He was daubing toast with butter and mustard.

Betty was washing stains from Seamie’s clothes. It wasn’t blood, more like a fleshy colour. I thought I was going to faint. I couldn’t get away quick enough.