He bent to pick up both their bags and followed her downstairs to reception. Two priests were ahead of him, paying their bill. Cushla told him she would see him outside the religious shop across the street in a few minutes. As she walked away, the receptionist asked Michael if he and his wife had enjoyed their stay. Sarky bitch, Cushla muttered.

Plastic bottles of holy water, Our Lady-shaped, that reminded her of Matey. Books documenting the lives of the saints, holy pictures in gilt frames. She chose a missal for Davy – navy blue, embossed with silver writing – and plain silver rosary beads. There were prayers printed on cards near the till, the way supermarkets displayed sweets and chocolate. She chose a novena to St Joseph her grandmother used to recite when someone was in trouble, that came in a plastic sleeve with a brassy, oval medal. Michael came into the shop as she was paying. Cushla watched the assistant put the items in a bag and saw them through Michael’s eyes, the mass-produced piety of them. She had little faith, but enough to feel the badness of it. That she was bringing religious souvenirs home from a dirty weekend with someone’s husband.

Who did you buy those for? he said, when they were outside the shop.

Davy McGeown.

He took the bag from her and tipped the prayer into his palm. He read the back of it aloud.

‘Whoever shall read this prayer, or hear it or keep it about themselves, shall never die a sudden death, or be drowned, nor shall poison take effect on them; neither shall they fall into the hands of the enemy, or shall be burned in any fire, or shall be overpowered in battle. Say for nine mornings for anything you may desire; it has never been known to fail, so be sure you really want what you ask.’

St Joseph has it all covered. I should buy one myself, he said.

You’re making fun of me.

He put it back in the bag and gave it to her. There might be something in it, he said. It’s telling you to be careful what you wish for.

His car was parked a few feet away. He offered to drive her to the station, but she wanted to walk. He put his case in the back seat and took her face in his hands, kissing her forehead, her mouth, each cheek. Like a blessing. She stood by the kerb, the debris of Saturday night strewn around her, brown paper bags blotted with grease and vinegar, dented beer cans. She watched his car until she could no longer make it out and started walking.

16

16

The First Holy Communion day was approaching. Endless talk of dresses. Long or short. Lace or satin. Veil or parasol. Cushla clapped her hands. Settle yourselves, she said.