The Night of The Party

by Rachael English

Genres: Historical Mysteries

Synopsis

A NIGHT FOUR FRIENDS COULD NOT FORGET. A LIFETIME OF SECRETS.

From the number one bestselling author of The Paper Bracelet and The American Girl comes a compelling story of friendship, a small town, and a big secret . . . filled with warmth, drama and an unforgettable twist, The Night of the Party is perfect for fans of Kathryn Hughes, Susan Lewis and Emily Gunnis.
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January 1982. In the rural village of Kilmitten, the Crossan family is holding its annual party during the biggest snowstorm Ireland has seen in decades. By the end of the night, the parish priest has been found dead, in suspicious circumstances.

For Tom, Conor, Tess and Nina, four teenage friends who were there, life will never be the same. One of them carries a secret and, as the years pass and their lives diverge, a bond that won't be broken silently holds.

As the thirty-fifth anniversary of the priest's death approaches, Conor, now a senior police officer, has reason to believe that Tom - a prominent politician - can help identify the killer. As his dilemma draws the four friends back together, all are forced to question their lives and to confront their differences.

*THE LETTER HOME, THE NEW NOVEL FROM RACHAEL ENGLISH, IS AVAILABLE TO PRE-ORDER NOW*

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FIND OUT WHY READERS LOVE RACHAEL ENGLISH:

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Release date: January 14, 2022

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 400

Sample

County Clare, January 1982

They had never seen anything like it.

The first snowflakes arrived on Thursday afternoon. Before long, the flurries blurred into a steady fall, the snow folding itself around Kilmitten until everything was white. People took to the streets, beaming at the wonder of it all. ‘Look at that sky,’ they said. ‘It’s not finished yet, you know.’ Children shrieked with delight, and adults turned into children. Snowballs went zinging through the air, while kids on makeshift sleds – here a coal sack, there a tea tray – zoomed down Toomey’s Hill.

By Friday morning, the entire country was covered. On the radio, the newsreader warned against unnecessary journeys. Dublin was at a standstill, he said, and Wicklow was cut off.

Best of all, there was no school.

Tom Crossan sat at the kitchen table, swirling a spoon around his Ready Brek and listening to his parents have one of those conversations that was actually two separate speeches.

‘I still say we’re making a mistake,’ said his mam. ‘Nobody’s going to come out in this weather. We’ll be wasting good money on food and drink.’

‘The front room looks like something out of a tenement,’ said his dad. ‘Could you not dry those clothes elsewhere?’

‘You’d swear we had money to waste.’

‘Why don’t you bring them in here?’

‘And have you seen the state of the roads? Seriously, if you think I’m driving into Templemorris, you’d want to think again. I could end up in a ditch. I suppose I’ll have to buy the drink locally, and you know how much that costs.’

‘It’s a shame we had to take down the Christmas decorations. They brightened the place up. Could we string up a few lights, do you think?’

Tom zoned out. For as long as he could remember (which was eight years’ worth of memories – he couldn’t recall much before the age of four), his parents had held a party in early January. It’s such a miserable month, they’d say. People need cheering up. He’d worried that this year the weather would put them off. He should have known better. The snow could be roof-high, and still his dad wouldn’t cancel a get-together. He liked to boast that no one was turned away from his house: no matter how snooty, no matter how hard-up, everyone was welcome.

Tom had heard that there were places where people went an entire year without clogging up each other’s houses, where there were no rowdy gatherings of red-faced men and overly perfumed women, no card games in the kitchen or ballad-singing in the front room, no morning-after gossip. What a pain that would be. Everybody in Kilmitten liked a party, and while their parents were busy making fools of themselves, the village’s youngsters got to experience some freedom. Tonight, Tom planned on making the most of it.

‘You’re quiet, Tommo,’ said his dad, as he poked a knife at the concrete-hard butter. ‘Are you not looking forward to a day in the white stuff?’

‘I’m going to call up to Conor in a second.’

‘Well, be careful not to fall over or do anything stupid,’ said his mam, who was an expert in things going wrong. ‘And don’t forget I’ll want you back here good and early. There’ll be work to do. Oh, and eat up that breakfast, would you?’

Tom returned to his cereal. His mother was always baffled when teachers complained about him being too talkative. ‘There’s barely a word out of him at home,’ she’d say. ‘I can’t imagine what he goes on about at school.’ What she didn’t understand was that, for most of Tom’s life, there hadn’t been any space for talking. If his sisters and their friends weren’t yap-yap-yapping at each other, his parents were arguing or storytelling. Now that his sisters were gone, there were more opportunities for him to have his say, but what was the point in speaking when nobody listened?

‘Ah, Cora,’ said his dad. ‘Don’t spoil the lad’s fun. Sure how often do we get a fall of snow like this?’

‘Don’t “Ah, Cora” me, Haulie. The last thing I need is a child with a broken leg or a head full of stitches.’ She rose from her chair and began piling dishes into the sink. ‘Anyway, shouldn’t you be getting off to work?’

‘I can’t see there being much business today.’ He leaned back and smiled. ‘Throw us on another piece of toast there, pet.’

‘Throw it on yourself. And if you’re not going down to the pumps, you can wash these cups.’ She patted her cloud of red hair. ‘I’ve a hairdresser to see.’

There was chaos on Toomey’s Hill with everybody skittering around at different speeds. One of the O’Grady brothers was shoving fistfuls of snow down the back of the girls’ coats, or at least he was until Liesl Talty (her mam was obsessed with The Sound of Music) gave him a slap across the face. Tom was impressed. He wouldn’t dare hit an O’Grady. Two other brothers whizzed past on election posters belonging to their uncle Paddy, who represented the county in Dublin. Majella Sexton slid by on a wooden pallet. A fourth O’Grady said she’d get splinters in her backside but he’d help her to remove them. Majella told him he’d never get that lucky. Some of the little kids from the new houses near the creamery were building a monster of a snowman. In the middle of it all, a stray dog ran around in circles, barking like he might have rabies.

Toomey’s wasn’t much of a hill, but it was the best Kilmitten had to offer. For miles around, the land was flat. Great farming land, the adults said. They also said there was no money in farming, these days, and that soon enough everybody would be living in Dublin or London. Or New York, like Tom’s sisters.

Tom and Conor’s progress had been slow. Conor had insisted on stopping every few steps and sticking out his tongue until a snowflake settled there. Tom’s best friend was a long skinnymalinks of a fellow with grey eyes and sandy hair. At the front, one bright red tuft stood up, as though it belonged on someone else’s head. Almost everybody liked Conor, but even if they didn’t, they had to be nice because his mother was dead. His father, Flan Varley, was the local sergeant. Tom’s dad maintained that this was the easiest job in Ireland: the last time there’d been a proper crime in the village, Queen Victoria had been in charge.

On Main Street, they’d passed Father Galvin, who was wearing a huge furry hat, like a Russian on the TV news. ‘Morning, boys,’ he’d called. ‘How’s the day off school treating you?’

‘Great, Father,’ said Tom. ‘Did you get a day off Mass as well?’

Conor gave him a look that suggested this was a dumb question, but Father Galvin laughed. ‘That’s a good one,’ he replied. ‘No, I’m afraid the Lord’s work has got to continue. I’ll be seeing you later, though. I hope your mam’s not going to too much trouble.’

Father Galvin always came to the Crossans’ parties and he always brought the same gift: a bag of Lucky Numbers and a box of Maltesers. He liked to drink a small Paddy with a dash of water and no ice. (Tom tried to remember everybody’s favourite drink. This made it more likely that they’d slip him fifty pence – or even a pound.) As priests went, Father Galvin was okay. His Masses were short, and he handed out hardly any penance, just a Hail Mary or two and a warning to behave yourself in future. The year before, there’d been a visiting mission and the priest had given Tom two decades of the rosary. Two decades! Tom wouldn’t have minded but he hadn’t confessed all of his sins. He’d left out the part about looking at his dad’s dirty magazines.

The two might have stayed talking to the priest, only they saw Noel O’Grady coming. Father of the dreaded brothers, Mr O’Grady was a total bore. Tom’s dad said he always looked like he was one fried breakfast away from a heart attack.

They were at the top of the hill, laying out the fertiliser bag they’d taken from Conor’s shed, when a familiar voice rose up behind them.

‘Are we still on for tonight, boys?’

It was Tess Fortune, smothered in a massive grey overcoat, a pink woolly hat pulled low over her green eyes. Tess was even thinner than Conor, so thin that one of the lads at school had called her a Cambodian. Without missing a beat, she’d given him a dirty look and said, ‘It’s Kampuchea now, you ignoramus.’ Tess was tough. She had to be. She had no dad, and people gossiped about her mam, saying she spent too much time in Pilkington’s Lounge. Her mam was younger than most parents. Oh, and she was beautiful. Not as beautiful, mind, as Tess’s best friend, Nina Minogue, who was the best-looking girl in Kilmitten.

‘Yep, we’re definitely on,’ said Tom, as he glanced around for Nina. No sign. What if she didn’t like the snow and decided to stay at home tonight? He’d bet his life that the Minogues’ house was good and warm. He couldn’t imagine Nina seeing her breath when she got up in the morning or having to wipe the ice from the bedroom window with the sleeve of her pyjamas. Nina’s father was a doctor, so he probably knew all about the importance of central heating. Of course, the Minogues were loaded, which must help with heating and such.

‘You will be able to get away, won’t you?’ continued Tess. ‘I mean, won’t your mam and dad want you to take people’s coats and fetch drinks and that?’

She was wearing long silvery earrings and the reflection from the snow made it look like they were shimmering and dancing against her face. She had a really small face.

‘It’ll be fine,’ said Tom, with a wave of one hand. He wished he’d taken off his gloves. You wouldn’t catch the O’Gradys wearing gloves. Gloves were soft. ‘I’ll have to hang around for a while. But once they’ve had a couple of drinks, I’ll be able to escape. Don’t worry.’

‘And I’ll get out the window, no bother,’ said Conor, digging his hands deep into the pockets of his Christmas anorak. It was a genuine Lord Anthony with thick grey fur around the hood, not an imitation, like Tom’s.

‘Cool,’ said Tess, as she twirled away. ‘I guess I’ll see you then.’

‘And—’

She turned back, a grin splitting her face. ‘Don’t panic, Tom. Nina’s coming too.’

The Crossans’ house was big. Big and ugly, according to Tom’s mother, who was always talking about selling up and getting a nice modern bungalow with fitted wardrobes and wall-to-wall carpet. Tom’s dad had spent all his life in the grey detached house and wouldn’t hear of moving. If you were being kind, you might describe it as in need of some work. If you were being honest, you’d say it was dilapidated. Tom didn’t care. True, the ceilings sagged, water streamed down the walls and wind whistled through the windows. True, there were so many rooms that as soon as one was fixed up, another was calling out for repair. But how many people were lucky enough to live in a house where it was possible to hide? Where you could dodge interfering parents and annoying sisters for hours on end?

The back garden, too, was untamed. For large parts of the year, the grass came up to Tom’s waist. If he lay on the ground, no one could see him. Every now and then, his dad would be overcome by a fit of busyness, and they’d all have to go out the back and hack down the grass and weeds and briars. When they’d finished, his dad would hold out his arms and say, ‘Isn’t it a fine old place all the same?’ In no time, the garden would be as wild as ever.

At the bottom, beside the hedge, there was a wooden shed packed with years – no, decades – of rubbish. Tins of paint jostled for space with damp rolls of carpet and prehistoric tools. It smelt of creosote and mould. That was where Tom and Conor were now, sitting on two overturned tea chests, their only light provided by an old torch. Their shadows looped and flickered against the walls, making the shed feel like the opening of Tales of the Unexpected. Two brown bottles of Harp stood on the floor. Tom’s pockets held three John Player Blue, a box of matches and a bottle-opener.

‘Maybe they’re not going to come after all,’ said Conor.

‘They’ll be here,’ Tom reassured him, although his knees were doing a nervous jiggle. He, too, was starting to have doubts. Tess’s mam and Nina’s parents were at the party, and both girls should have been able to escape. So why weren’t they here? Come to think of it, what had he been doing, inviting them over for a drink and a smoke? They probably got scores of invitations. There was every chance that at this very minute they were somewhere else, having a laugh at him.

Despite the snow, almost everybody on his parents’ invitation list had turned up. A few who weren’t on the list had arrived too. Before the doorbell began to ring, Tom’s father, who’d put on his multicoloured sports jacket, had got into a tizzy about the house being too cold. He’d made Tom place two pages of The Irish Field in front of the fireplace until the flames roared up the chimney. ‘Will you stop that, Haulie?’ his mother had said. ‘You’ll set the chimney on fire, and then what’ll we do?’

‘We’ll enjoy the heat, that’s what,’ he’d replied.

Tom’s mother, who was wearing her best blue dress, the one with fake diamonds on the belt, laughed. This made him suspect that she’d already started on the Cinzano.

It was that kind of night. To begin with, there was the usual phoney politeness. ‘Just a small G&T for me, Cora. I had far too much over the Christmas,’ and ‘Go easy with that brandy, Haulie. I’ve milking in the morning.’ As the numbers multiplied, Tom was called into action, filling drinks, finding ashtrays and carrying extra chairs from the back kitchen. He handed around sandwiches, cocktail sausages and little pieces of cheese on sticks. The noise rose from a low mumble to a babble to an all-out roar, like a class with no teacher. Party-goers asked Tom about the snow, what he’d got for Christmas and how he was getting on at secondary school. Then they asked if he had a girlfriend. Finally, they forgot he was there at all. For a short while, he listened in, in case he might learn something important. One woman had the big C, apparently. ‘Riddled with it,’ according to Mercedes Talty. Somebody else was in the family way (‘and not a boyfriend in sight’) while another neighbour was ‘inside, drying out’. Noel O’Grady told a story about New Year’s night when he’d driven home from Pilkington’s with a hand over one eye to stop himself seeing double.

‘You’ll know all about it if Flan Varley catches you,’ said Tom’s dad. ‘The guards are taking the drink-driving very seriously, these days.’

‘Leave Flan to me,’ replied Mr O’Grady, in a way that suggested he had few worries about the law.

Conor’s father was beside the window with Tess’s mother and Father Galvin. What they found to talk about, Tom didn’t know. Save for the fact that all three were on their own, they didn’t have much in common. He wondered if Mr Varley would ever find a new wife. Not that he’d say it to Conor. Even though he rarely mentioned her, it was obvious that Conor missed his mother. One day in religion, Miss Casey had been boring on about what happens when someone dies, and Conor had turned the colour of watery rice pudding, then barged out of the room. Seánie O’Grady said Conor was acting like a poof, but Seánie was a moron who stuck out his tongue when he read, so nobody took any notice of him.

When Tess and Nina did arrive, it was with a rat-tat-tat on the door, a burst of freezing air and a rush of apologies. Nina said it was her fault they were late. Her parents had hired a babysitter for her younger brother, and the sitter had insisted on watching Nina too.

‘I hope you haven’t started without us,’ said Tess, who was still wearing the gigantic grey coat. Her pink hat had been replaced with something that could have doubled as a tea cosy. Perhaps it was a tea cosy. There were snowflakes in Nina’s long chocolaty hair and on the shoulders of her duffel coat. Tom had to stop himself brushing them away. She looked like she belonged in Dr Zhivago or one of those films that made his mam cry.

‘We’re only here five minutes ourselves,’ he lied. ‘There’s a seat over there for you.’ He pointed towards a mildewed two-seater sofa he’d covered with sacks.

‘Do you hang out here all the time?’ asked Nina, as they sat down.

‘Yes,’ said Tom.

‘No,’ said Conor, their answers colliding.

‘What are the pair of you like?’ said Tess, pulling off her tea cosy. She looked around. ‘It’s a bit of a kip, isn’t it?’

‘I think it’s fab,’ said Nina. ‘If I had a place like this at home, I wouldn’t ever want to leave.’

It turned out that Tess was the most experienced smoker. While Tom had had the occasional puff, he wasn’t sure he could inhale. Conor was a wheezing amateur, and Nina wasn’t much better. But Tess was a pro. Not only did she inhale, she knew how to blow actual smoke rings.

‘I take my mam’s smokes all the time,’ she said, in her most casual voice. ‘Believe it or not, she never seems to notice.’

Smoking, it turned out, came with a rule book. Tess took charge, showing them how to light one cigarette from the butt of another and instructing them not to slobber on the filter. This was known as a ‘duck’s arse’ and was a very bad thing. She also knew the best way to remove the smell from your breath. Silvermints were handy, but a handful of grass was better. ‘Just chew it,’ she said, with an earnest nod.

‘Like a cow?’ asked Conor.

‘Like a cow.’

Drinking beer was a lot simpler, but no matter how often Tom tried – and he often stole sips from his dad’s glass – he couldn’t get used to it. Why couldn’t the beer people make it taste better? Still, it warmed you up and made words easier to find.

Tom didn’t know what to talk about. Most of his girl conversations had been with his sisters or with the girls in his class at school. Those chats were simple: ‘Isn’t Mr Lillis a complete tool?’ somebody would ask, or ‘Do you think Miss McBride is having it off with Mr Noonan?’ Luckily, as they passed around the first bottle, Tess did most of the talking. She nattered on about the snow and about school and about who was rumoured to be getting off with whom. Tom, Conor and Tess went to St Ursula’s in nearby Templemorris. Nina was at boarding school. She didn’t say much, but Tom could tell she didn’t like it. You had to queue for your meals, and when you got your food, it was cold or horrible or both. Some of the girls were right bitches, who teased Nina for sounding like a culchie. This was stupid because she had the nicest voice in Kilmitten – she could have read the news or anything. Tom was surprised to realise he’d said this out loud. Conor laughed, and Tess went, ‘Woooh’, but Nina smiled and her brown eyes crinkled, like she was genuinely grateful.

During their second bottle of beer, which tasted much better than the first, they talked about music and how sad it was that people bought records by Shakin’ Stevens and Bucks Fizz when there were lots of brilliant groups like The Human League and The Jam. They agreed that this was a great time for music and that the old bands, like The Beatles, sounded very basic now.

‘Primitive,’ said Tess, and they all nodded.

They skipped onto a discussion about the challenges of being a teenager.

‘Did you ever notice,’ said Tess, ‘that we’re always either too old or too young?’

‘Oh, yeah,’ agreed Nina. ‘Those are my dad’s favourite words. One minute I’m too young for stuff, like getting my ears pierced or wearing lip gloss. Then, five minutes later, he’s all, “Stop fighting with your brother. You’re too old for that now.” Honestly, it’s such a drag.’

To Tom’s relief, the girls seemed to have forgotten that he wouldn’t be thirteen until March. At one point, he worried Conor was about to say something. He sent his fiercest look in his friend’s direction. The last thing he wanted was Nina dismissing him as a kid.

He was telling them about the gossip he’d picked up at the party when the beer ran out.

‘It’s a shame we don’t have another bottle,’ said Nina.

‘There’s no chance you could get one more, is there?’ asked Tess.

Tom didn’t want them to go. Not yet. He glanced from one to the other, at Tess’s ‘Go on, I dare you’ face and Nina’s look of expectation. Luckily, his parents stored most of the party drink, and all the food, in the back kitchen, which wasn’t really a kitchen at all, just a ramshackle room at the rear of the house. Even better, the room had a door that led directly onto the garden. That was how he’d got out. By now, the party-goers would be drunk. If he was careful, nobody would spot him.

‘I’d better go up and get another one, so.’

‘Yay,’ said Tess, rubbing her palms together. ‘Now we’re talking. Do you want me to come with you?’

‘Nope, it’s better if I go on my own. I’ll see you in a tick.’

Tom moved slowly up the path. Sometimes he squelched; sometimes he slithered; mostly he sank. What he needed was a pair of those snowshoes they wore in the films, the ones that looked like tennis racquets for your feet. Around him the snow continued to fall. The air was clean as peppermint. He thought of his parents. They would assume he’d slunk off to bed, but in the morning, they might notice the footsteps between the shed and the house. He’d have to come up with a story. As he edged closer, he heard a dull thump. They were playing music, old-timer records from the sixties and seventies. That was good. It meant there was less chance of somebody hearing him. He’d sneak in, take a bottle, no, two bottles, and sneak out again.

As he reached the corner of the building, a lightheaded feeling came over him, an enjoyable sort of lightheaded, like speeding over a humpback bridge. The door was inches away now. The light was on, but that made sense: people had to go in and fetch more drink or sandwiches. He peeped in and, through the snowflakes, saw what looked like a familiar figure leaving the room. Well, it was only a blur, really. All the same, he decided to stay out of sight for another few seconds. Only then did it occur to him that his parents might have locked the door. He counted to twenty before pressing down on the handle and giving a gentle push. He was in luck.

Almost immediately Tom saw the leg. It was sticking out as though whoever it belonged to was having a sleep on the floor. He gave another tiny push. There was a second leg. Of course there was a second leg. Jesus, thought Tom, am I drunk? Am I seeing things that aren’t there? The owner of the legs was slumped against a cupboard. Finally, he saw the head. He couldn’t see the face, but that didn’t matter. He knew the black curly hair. He’d know it anywhere. It was Father Galvin. The priest’s head lolled, as if he wasn’t just asleep. As if he was hurt or worse. Oh, hell. There was definitely something wrong. What had happened to Father Galvin? Tom didn’t want to see any more. Quickly, he pulled the door shut and, falling over himself like the maddest drunk ever, scrambled to the side of the house and leaned against the wall. Salty liquid climbed up his throat. He swallowed.

Father Galvin. There was an odd sound in Tom’s head, like being underwater in the swimming pool. He breathed in. And again. And again. The gulps of cold air hit his lungs and made his chest hurt. The person he’d seen leaving the room, surely they’d gone for help. That must be it. They’d gone to fetch somebody else. Shit. When they came back, they’d spot him. He didn’t want his folks to see him. Out here. Half jarred. In search of more beer. With Conor and the two girls in the shed and Father Galvin on the floor.

He took another breath and told himself to calm down. As long as neither his mam nor his dad went upstairs to check on him, he’d be okay. He’d have to get back into the house later but he’d wait until the fuss – there was bound to be fuss – had died down. In the meantime, he’d return to the others. He wouldn’t tell them what he’d seen. There’d be too many questions; questions he couldn’t answer. They’d all want to know what Father Galvin looked like, and the girls might get upset. No, he’d say the door was locked and leave it at that.

First, he needed to stop shaking.

Tess took a couple of minutes to adjust to the light. It glittered through the curtains, as if this was high summer rather than the depths of January. Then she remembered the snow. The snow made everything shine. She stretched out her legs until her feet reached the bottom of the bed. The sheets were freezing. Quickly, she curled back into a comma and thought about the night before.

Although she hadn’t been sure about hanging out with Tom and Conor, especially in a poxy old shed, she’d ended up enjoying herself. They weren’t the most popular guys at school but they weren’t the saddest either. You wouldn’t be embarrassed to say you’d had a drink and a smoke with them. Tess and Conor were two of a kind. Both had only one parent. The difference was, Conor remembered his mam. He’d been ten when the cancer took her away. Tess had never had a father. Or, to be more accurate, she’d never known him. He’d run away before she was born. When she asked about him, her mam waved her hands and said he wasn’t worth thinking about.

She’d expected that Tom and Conor would want to play spin the bottle or some such, but when the beer ran out and Tom couldn’t get any more, he’d said they should head home. ‘You don’t want to get grief from your folks,’ he’d argued. They’d hidden the empty bottles at the back of the shed and buried the cigarette butts in the snow. The boys had insisted on walking with them, which was sweet, if unnecessary. This was Kilmitten where nothing ever happened.

In her head, Tess had an alternative life where she was from somewhere far more exciting, a place where nobody gave a hoot how many parents she had. In this fantasy land, her mam had a large detached house, not a two-up two-down in a crumbling terrace. They never ran out of money before payday. They never had to eat cheese on crackers for dinner or share bathwater or wear ratty clothes. Tess always groaned when adults claimed that money wasn’t important. Oh, yeah? she’d think. Believe me, if you don’t have any, it’s very important.

All evening, she’d noticed Tom throwing gooey-eyed looks at Nina. Then again, everybody loved Nina: boys, parents … even teachers were mad about her. Tess and Nina had been friends since second class when their teacher had told them to share a desk. Mrs Nagle must have figured they wouldn’t have much to say to each other. Oh, the innocence of that poor teacher! Before the end of the day, they were giggling like eight-year-old maniacs. They discovered that they liked the same cartoons (Yogi Bear and Scooby-Doo), the same comics (Tammy and Bunty) and the same sweets (the three-for-a-penny chews that welded your teeth together). When Nina was sent to boarding school, Tess worried that she’d fall in with the pony-owning types and ignore her old friends. She was wrong. Nina said her new school was a dump and she wished she could go to St Ursula’s with everybody else. Tess thought she was crazy. She would happily have taken her chances at the posh school.

There was another reason she valued Nina’s friendship. It didn’t matter how cheap Tess’s clothes were or how loopy her mam could be, being tight with Nina gave her a special pass. It was like people said, ‘Well, if she’s good enough for the doctor’s daughter, she must be okay.’ Of course, Tess never came out and said this. She didn’t want Nina thinking she was a user.

From downstairs, she heard voices. Strange. Although her watch was out of reach, she thought it was fairly early. She could hear her mother and at least two other women: her friends, Mags and Mercedes. In Tess’s view, Mags and Mercedes were a pair of witches, as likely to gossip about her mam as with her. So far, she’d managed to stop herself saying this out loud.

Mags had a rasp of a voice, like she’d starting chain-smoking in her cot, and it powered above the others. Even so, Tess could make out only the occasional word. She caught ‘gardaí’, ‘fright’, ‘panic’ and ‘upside-down’. What her mam and Mercedes said in return, she didn’t know. One thing was obvious: this was no time to be hanging about in bed. She peeled back the covers and hopped around in search of something to wear. Glad for once that she didn’t need a bra, she pulled her jeans and red sweatshirt over her pyjamas. Then she took her fisherman’s socks from the drawer, ran a hand through her pale brown hair and wound a scarf around her neck. The morning was too cold for vanity.

Tess’s mother, Ginny, was sitting at the kitchen table with Mags and Mercedes. In front of them were a pot of tea, three mugs, a plate of toast crusts and an overflowing ashtray. Once upon a time, somebody had told Tess’s mam that in the right light she was Kilmitten’s answer to Debbie Harry. Maybe this was true, but just then she looked crumpled, the remains of her party make-up clinging to her face, her blonde hair all mussed up.

‘You’re up and about early,’ said Tess.

‘Is it any surprise?’ replied Mercedes.

Tess’s mam intervened with a stare that said, I’ll handle this. ?