The fire bell began to bleat. A few of the children fell silent, but there was a din on the corridor, voices and footsteps, and most were looking at the door. It opened suddenly. Bomb scare, said Bradley, turning on his heel to continue the evacuation.

The children left their seats and formed a line, standing still to allow Cushla to count them. She waited until the classroom next door had emptied before ushering her pupils out ahead of her. They left the building by the rear entrance. A squad car had arrived. As the children passed through the white-painted wrought-iron gate that led to the church, she watched two RUC men amble across the car park, one with his hat in his hand. Real bomb warnings were given with code words. This one had probably been delivered in a recently broken voice by a pimply truant from the high school.

The church was humming with the chatter of three hundred children. Cushla’s class crammed into the two empty pews behind Gerry’s.

They’re giddy, he said, joining her in the aisle.

They love a bomb scare.

We’d better get them singing, he said. He led them in the hymns that would be sung during the Communion ceremony. ‘Suffer Little Children’, a crowd-pleaser, because some of the parents thought it was about children suffering through the Troubles. ‘Lord of the Dance’, the children’s favourite. ‘Faith of Our Fathers’, Slattery’s favourite, presumably because of its references to torture and death.

As if he had heard her thoughts, Slattery appeared out of nowhere, saying he wanted to have a word about their First Confession. Cushla had told the children they were too young to have sins, that they should make something up to tell Slattery: they had been fighting with their brothers and sisters, perhaps; given cheek to their mothers; forgotten to say their prayers. Slattery spoke of original sin, of Adam and Eve and the temptation in the garden of paradise. Of remorse, guilt, sorrow. You’ll make your First Confession on Saturday, he said, and I promise you one thing: expect no leniency from me. He told them people would know the extent of their sinfulness from the length of time they knelt in the pew to say their penance. He handed each of the children a picture of Padre Pio – did he always walk around the place with dozens of those in his pockets? – and told them about the wounds on his hands that bled like the wounds of Christ. As he passed one to Davy, he bent and said something into his ear. Cushla bolted across the floor, but when she reached Davy, Slattery was walking away, smoothing his pockets.

A draught swept up the aisle. The two RUC men had entered the church, casting a long shadow on the waxed woodblock floor of the narthex. The school was safe.