The Past is Tomorrow

by Liz Ryan

Genres: Sagas

Synopsis

Shivaun Reilly has had enough. Still reeling from the loss of the only family she ever knew, passionately opposed to the injustices of heartless, Celltic-tiger Ireland, she thinks her heart will break when solid, dependable Ivor - the man she always thought she'd marry - decides to give up his safe career to take new risks in Spain. Then the hospital to which she's given all the devotion a dedicated nurse can bring is abruptly shut, and her ever-helpful lodger Alana finds the perfect solution: a job in America, away from all the politics and disappointments. Shivaun can't wait to go - and in a pretty New England town, she finds a whole new world of optimism and friendship. But neither happiness nor unhappiness is that easy to leave behind. 'Liz Ryan understands not only a woman's heart but a woman's mind' Terry Keane Sunday Times

Release date: July 18, 2013

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 608

Sample

Chapter One

It was ten weeks since the hospital installed its swish, impressive new security system. And ten hours now since Baby Kilo Finnegan went missing.

Shivaun Reilly ran through the drilling midsummer rain to her Mazda hatchback and let herself into it as if into a cocoon, a private bubble in which she could finally strip off the blithe, brisk
mask she had worn all day. People always felt somehow invisible in their cars, safe to scratch their noses or sing off-key or, in this instance, howl. It was a huge relief to let the tears flow
freely and she didn’t bother groping for a tissue as she started the engine, because she knew she was going to bawl most of the eight-mile, seventy-minute way home. The car was her space and
she could do what she liked in it.

Kilo Finnegan was her baby. Her scrawny, writhing, fabulous first-born, over whose birth she had triumphantly presided only five weeks ago as a newly promoted staff midwife. To be
technically accurate his mother was Fionnuala Finnegan, and he’d been delivered by Dr O’Hara, but that was mere detail, paperwork. Kilo was her spiritual soulmate, a fragile little
fighter battling, and beating, the odds.

A preemie, he’d weighed in at just one kilo, and as Dr O’Hara lowered his mask she’d known from his briefly bitten lip that young Kilo Finnegan was off to a dodgy start. Dodgy
and scary, just as her own start had been twenty-four years before.

His name was officially Danny. But his exact birthweight instantly earned him his nickname, and there was a communal feeling of campaign to get him up and running, kick-start him on the rocky
road to his target weight of two and a half kilos, at which point he would be allowed to go home with his anxious but optimistic young parents. Shivaun had fallen in love with him the moment she
saw his wrinkled, puzzled little ET face, and followed every inch of his progress thereafter. Each morning she ran to the intensive care unit to beam down at him, or at what bits were visible
amidst the tubes and wires: he was in an incubator, on oxygen, a ventilator and an antibiotic drip, with a naso-gastric feed line running up his nose. He looked wired to the moon, a micro-Martian.
He was her project. She cheered when he put on two grams, exulted when he gained five, even brought his mum Fionnuala a demented-looking Donald Duck toy ‘for when he gets big and
goes home’. Slowly he had got big, grown into a squishy, yummy baby and been on the brink of going home when, suddenly this morning, his cot had been found empty.

Empty! It was incredible, nobody could believe it, there had almost been hysteria until Matron rolled up like a Saracen tank, gazed into the cot as if commanding Kilo’s
reappearance by sheer force of determination, and marched off to call the police. As she departed, the ward sister who’d been on duty stammered tearfully: ‘May – maybe he
just—’

Matron whirled round. ‘Maybe he just what, Orla? Popped out to the pub for a pint? Ran round to the bank to cash a cheque?’

This was unusually sarcastic of Matron, who was famously loyal to her nurses and supportive of them. But Matron had been under pressure lately, with perpetual budget meetings and a complete
moron of a health minister to deal with – a minister who thought overworked, underpaid nurses in understaffed hospitals were a perfectly ‘productive’ way to run a health service.
Matron loathed this man, who insisted on calling her Director of Nursing as if she were running a business, and everyone knew the babbling goon intended to close down St Jude’s at the first
opportunity. A hundred and twenty years old, the hospital had been the birthplace of virtually the entire community, of their grandparents as well as today’s children, but the minister
didn’t give a stuff about that; he would merge it with one of the big hypermarket hospitals because small ones were no longer ‘viable’.

Well, Kilo Finnegan had scarcely been ‘viable’. But he had made it, thrilling his parents, nurses and doctors as he swarmed his way up the weighing scale to the point –
yes! – where he could be taken off the hardware and put on the breast. Shivaun knew she would never forget that first sight of him nuzzling into his mother, lolling in her arms like
a drunken sailor. My bambino, she whooped to herself, has done it! Although she had delivered dozens of others since (with doctor’s assistance, as she liked to think of it), Kilo Finnegan
held pride of place in her heart.

And now, he was gone. Missing. AWOL. Distraught and distracted, Shivaun became aware she was in the wrong lane, and signalled to the driver on her offside that she wanted to change. But he
nudged deliberately forward, wouldn’t let her in. Bastard! She swore as she cut in front of him, and raised two fingers for good measure. In return he hooted fiercely, and she felt an almost
uncontrollable urge to slam on the brakes, leap out of her car and run to his, crash her fist through the window.

Road rage. Oh, Christ. Was this how it happened, was this country becoming completely impossible to live in? Making a serious effort, she signalled a grudging apology and turned left, into a
static gridlock that looked as if it had been there for hours. On rainy evenings this road was always tied in knots, except for the free-flow bus lane. But there was no bus to St Jude’s in
time for her eight o’clock start, so she had to take the car … sighing, she dropped it into neutral, her mind refusing to let go of Kilo Finnegan. What if some looper had taken him,
someone seriously dangerous even to a tiny baby? Who would take him, why?

Some instinct told her that the police were wrong in their glib assumption that some grieving mother must have done it, one of the ones whose babies had died or been adopted. Only three babies
had died at St Jude’s in recent years, but several had been adopted, and the female of the two cops who’d arrived to investigate had demanded a full list of all the mothers’ names
and addresses.

‘Hormones,’ she’d said in an automatic, know-all tone, ‘haywire. Some mixed-up mama, but means no harm … we’ll find this child in no time, have him back by
close of play.’

Yeah. Right. But the day had worn on with no word of Kilo, and Shivaun thought bitterly of that slick new security system. How much had it cost? Fifty grand? A hundred? Whatever the figure, it
was money down the drain. One person could swipe open a door with their ID card and politely hold it open for fifteen others to walk through. Brilliant. Nothing like this would ever have happened
in the days of Stan the hall porter, who’d never in thirty years let so much as an unauthorised mouse into the building. The money for the system should have been spent on doubling his salary
– or on medical equipment, instead of expecting the parents to fund it with cake sales, karaoke nights and sponsored trudges through Thailand. A hundred and fifty parents had literally
slogged their way through that country, in addition to paying the taxes that were supposed to buy all the things they apparently did not. Shivaun was far from alone in wondering what exactly her
taxes did buy, apart from a nice Mercedes-Benz for the health minister.

The parents were wonderful. Always loyal to St Jude’s, they threw their weight behind every new fundraising drive, did all sorts of voluntary work and sent in private, secret cheques …
but their faith in the hospital was going to be seriously hammered when they heard about the missing baby. It would look like negligence, maybe the Finnegans would even sue Matron despite her
overruled opposition to the new electronic security?

Shivaun fumed as she thought of the uphill battle Matron was now facing, and fumed some more as she thought of those poor women suspected of the abduction. As if they hadn’t enough to
contend with, without opening their front doors to find the police ‘diplomatically, sensitively’ demanding to search their homes! It would come to a search, she supposed, when they
denied all knowledge of Kilo’s whereabouts … the nerve of it, the outrage!

Meanwhile, a counsellor had been rushed to the side of Fionnuala Finnegan, who naturally had screamed aloud on being informed her baby was missing. She was electrified with horror, as any parent
would be, but not in the least irrational; Shivaun had privately given a clenched-fist salute to hear her tell the well-meaning counsellor to fuck off. Despite her youth Shivaun was an
old-fashioned nurse, knew that pain and grief were things you had to work through in your own way at your own pace. Drugs could alleviate them but they couldn’t cure their source; sooner or
later you had to tackle that yourself. In any event, Kilo’s father Martin had come storming in to gather Fionnuala into his arms and lead her to a private room for the far more intimate
comfort she needed. Love and hugs were, in Shivaun’s opinion, far more productive than any smartass shrink spouting Californian psychobabble. Vividly she still remembered the clever-clogs
counsellors who’d been drafted in to give her ‘therapy’ after her own ‘trauma’, five years ago … she’d listened to them, but she’d never spoken to
them, because what was there to say?

All the counselling in Christendom wasn’t going to change anything, and it was only when she realised that fact that she’d taken the first shaky step to recovery. Not that she had
recovered, or ever entirely would, but at least today she could function, she could absorb the nightmare into reality and get on with her daily life.

That’s not too bad, she thought, is it? I’m not in care, I’m not institutionalised or supervised, I’m coping, surviving, doing my best.

But suddenly she realised, as she turned on the radio to hear whether there was any news of Kilo, that she was exhausted. It had been the worst day of her career, she hadn’t eaten since
six this morning, barely been able to concentrate on the Hughes baby who entered the world with a twisted wrist or the Killeen infant who, after one piercing screech to announce her arrival, had
suddenly stopped breathing. Both were doing fine now, but – but where was Kilo?

Nobody knew, the radio said. A baby had been abducted from St Jude’s hospital at seven this morning but the police were not yet following any definite line of enquiry … the parents had
declined counselling … Shivaun cheered to hear that Martin was supporting Fionnuala on that score, that both parents were united with Matron in rejecting a counsellor whose services had not
been requested. The counsellor had been frogmarched in by the authorities, and now the Finnegans were socking the authorities one in the eye. Good.

There was only one useful thing a counsellor could do, and that was produce Kilo Finnegan, intact, pristine and safe. As yet, nobody had been able to do that. Snapping off the radio, Shivaun
gazed into the gnarled knot of traffic, up at the surly sky; God, she couldn’t wait to see Ivor, talk to him! And meanwhile, get home to Alana who’d have dinner ready and something wry
to say, no doubt, about the missing baby being only a very small one.

Alana Kennedy was indeed cooking dinner, putting on some water to boil for the rice to go with the chicken masala. Even allowing for the Friday evening traffic and rain which
mysteriously doubled it, Shivaun should be home soon. Home panting with anxiety about the Finnegan child, fretting and worrying and refusing to unplug her mind from the work that consumed her.
Alana was a nurse too, but for her it was a job – poorly paid at that – whereas to Shivaun it was a vocation. A true vocation, in the sense that the babies were forever calling, crying
out to her. Any minute now she’d dash in with her hazel eyes looking like she was drowning in them, tugging at the tawny hair which had developed split ends as a result. She’d need
persuasion to pick at her food and let it go cold while she rattled on, raging about the mismanagement of the Irish health service; then there’d be a rant about the dreadful weather everyone
else said was beautiful – in Ireland, a ‘beautiful’ day meant it wasn’t actually raining as you spoke. Then there’d be the bit about the taxes and the traffic and the
crime rate, the nation’s rapid and comprehensive slide into Babylonian venality …

Really it was a wonder Shivaun didn’t go into politics, she took it all so much to heart, just as she did her work, perpetually tilting at windmills. Prosperity didn’t encourage
decency, she said, it was her belief that Ireland’s new affluence was fostering corruption, the country was turning into a vain, violent little thug.

Alana had to admit that yes, some of the latest scandals did make the Mafia look like the Legion of Mary by comparison. There were lies and thefts and tribunals, the clergy seemed to be
sex-crazed almost to a man, drugs, deals and bribery simmered under the shiny new surface. People were getting into debt with the collusion of the banks, chasing rainbows … but you
couldn’t carry it all on your own shoulders, not when they were as bamboo-slender as Shivaun Reilly’s. She was so fragile, under the skin.

Of course it was that dreadful shock, five years ago, that had got her started down this road. Alana hadn’t met Shivaun until after the event, but after living with her for over four
years, she knew where she was coming from. Shivaun had got her life and her emotions back under control, but she still hadn’t forgiven what had happened or understood how it could have
happened. Down in her depths she still howled and lamented, beat her fists against the truth, denied the nightmare and tried to drive it from her. When she married Ivor, as she surely must some day
soon, she’d be better off moving out of Dublin, settling in some relatively peaceful rural place. There’d be a cottage hospital to work in and Ivor could work anywhere, all he needed
was a computer and the internet.

And then children would come along to distract her. Alana was in no doubt that Shivaun would have several – four, five, even six. She craved a family, would barricade herself into it, and
Alana knew the reasons why. Kids, security, Ivor’s devoted love; Shivaun needed all of that in a way that she, Alana, sometimes found alarming in its intensity. Like the rain it sometimes
subsided, but always came flooding back, engulfing her. It wasn’t a question of romance or domestic bliss, it was virtually a question of survival. Spiritual survival and, Alana sometimes
thought uneasily, even physical survival. It was imperative that Shivaun marry Ivor, now that he had graduated, and have children with him, and have them soon.

As she waited for the water to boil, Alana found herself thinking of the first time she’d met Shivaun, one unpromisingly wet March day back in 1994. She’d been twenty-two then, fresh
up from midwifery training in Ardkean, and Shivaun had been only nineteen, a student nurse who mysteriously owned this house and was looking for someone to share it. Alana answered her ad on the
staff noticeboard at St Jude’s and was amazed to discover a prospective landlady even younger than herself, a mere teenager asking a ridiculously low rent for a double room with full access
to garden, kitchen and laundry facilities. But only on probation, at first; Shivaun said she wanted to be sure they’d get on together and Alana had wondered, frankly, whether they would.

Shivaun had seemed jumpy and edgy as she ludicrously conducted that first meeting, completely different to Alana’s own tumbling, teasing horde of brothers and sisters. In the Kennedy home
in Waterford things were relaxed to the point of horizontal; it was crammed with so many people that nobody ever knew where anything was, who owned anything or who that extra person sitting at the
table might be. The Kennedys were a bunch of slobs, cheery chatty slobs: eight kids, two parents, three dogs, a donkey and a fistful of scuffling chickens. Alana was the eldest and the first to
leave for Dublin, not at all sure she liked it when she reached it, or whether she liked Shivaun’s unnervingly tidy, well-organised house. It seemed sort of – fortified,
somehow, as they sat there discussing domestic details over cups of tea. Proper cups, with saucers.

‘What about the third bedroom?’ she’d asked, thinking maybe the more the merrier, ‘are you planning to rent that out too?’

‘No,’ Shivaun had replied without hesitation, ‘my boyfriend sometimes stays over weekends and he likes to have somewhere of his own to study. He’s a trainee
accountant.’

Alana was surprised and rather cheered to hear there was a boyfriend. He might be fun, put a grin on Shivaun’s face and soften its slightly combative angles. It wasn’t that Shivaun
didn’t smile – she did, several times – it was just that she was somehow making Alana feel junior to her despite being three years younger. She seemed terribly grown up for
nineteen.

She wondered why the boyfriend didn’t live here with Shivaun, since living together was so common in Dublin, but as if reading her thoughts Shivaun added something about his mother being
widowed, his needing to spend time with her. She was, Alana gathered, the kind of mother who couldn’t be left alone. So Shivaun was alone instead, offering a room in this clean fresh house at
the absolutely bargain rate of fifty pounds a week. Earnestly, she leaned forward and asked Alana what she thought her ‘best and worst’ personal habits might be.

Alana, who’d urgently needed somewhere to live, decided on an exercise in damage limitation.

‘Well,’ she said, ‘I am a bit untidy, but on the other hand I’m a good cook and I have a sense of humour … we might have a bit of craic together?’

Shivaun looked, she thought, like someone who could use a bit of craic, youthful fun, midnight giggles over pizza and plonk. Even though midwifery was the brighter end of the business, nursing
could be a sometimes sad, wearing job, with huge responsibilities. Had something gone wrong for Shivaun already, had there been some tragic mistake with drugs or dosages? But then, she
wouldn’t still be working at St Jude’s, her career would be over before it had properly begun.

‘Yes,’ Shivaun nodded thoughtfully, ‘we might. I have to warn you that I’m not the disco type, I don’t want you playing loud music at midnight or throwing parties,
but if you think you can handle that then why don’t you move in for a month, let’s say, and see what happens?’

And so Alana had moved in, and there had been instant friction over the wet towels she left strewn around the bathroom, unrinsed dishes piled in the sink, a hairbrush she borrowed when she
couldn’t find her own. At the end of the month, when she produced her rent money, she fully expected to get her marching orders in return. But Shivaun simply looked out the kitchen window,
and pointed.

‘When are you going to mow that grass? It’s your turn and we agreed to take turns, Alana.’

Surprised and somehow chastened, Alana resolved to make an effort. Shivaun was a bit prickly, but she was fair and honest, there was a kind of tenacity about her that was engaging. But another
full month passed before Alana dared ask her how she came to be living here alone, and to own the house.

‘My parents died’ Shivaun replied matter-of-factly, ‘and I inherited.’

‘Oh. Oh, wow. What a bummer. You’re awfully young to be orphaned.’

‘I was orphaned,’ Shivaun replied shortly, ‘at birth.’

Alana gasped, could still hear her gasp as she thought of it today.

‘What? Y – you mean you were only a baby when your parents died?’

‘No. The parents who died were my adoptive parents. My birth parents left me in a church doorway when I was a few hours old.’

Speechless, Alana stared. In the same blank tone, Shivaun went on dispensing the information as if it were a bus timetable: ‘I don’t know whether my mother took me there, or my
father, or both, I don’t know whether she recovered from the birth or not, or what happened next … but now you know, OK?’

Her look was so defiant that Alana recoiled. But it was most certainly not OK. Alana was appalled, yearning to know how Shivaun had lost the second set of parents as well. But she couldn’t
summon the courage to ask, only to enquire when it had happened.

‘It happened eight months ago. I don’t really want to discuss it.’

Alana nodded dumbly, and the subject was dropped. But from that moment their relationship changed, they were no longer mere landlady and tenant. Alana felt a shaft of protectiveness for Shivaun,
and a surge of respect: most people would be in tatters, on crying jags, reeling from such recent bereavement. Double bereavement – what in God’s name could it have been? A car crash,
plane crash? Some even worse thing that hardly bore contemplation? It must be something pretty bad, judging by Shivaun’s face and tone … and yet she was so composed. She never inflicted
her pain or moaned about her misfortune, and Alana had to admire her for that as they gradually inched their way forward to friendship. Not a chummy, matey friendship, at first, but some form of
raw communication.

What did Shivaun see in her? Sometimes Alana wondered. She knew she was messy, a slob in both kitchen and bathroom, she was overweight and absent-minded, had to be chivvied into doing the boring
bloody housework. But one day as she sat roaring with laughter at some comedy on television, she’d sensed a presence behind her, and turned to find Shivaun smiling at her.

For her part, she saw standards to be lived up to in Shivaun Reilly. There was something almost stern about her, she didn’t take any prisoners or mince her words, but she was so forthright
and candid you just had to admire her, and she did turn out to have a sense of humour. She was bloody attractive too, looked good even in her nurse’s uniform, when she dressed up for a date
with Ivor she radiated beauty all around her. Yet she never flaunted the fabulous Ivor, never poked into Alana’s own sex life which was, demonstrably and embarrassingly, non-existent. Alana
was stunned when she met Ivor, completely captivated by his sporty physique, edibly delicious looks and friendly charm, a charm that hooked her like a floundering fish. From the start Ivor was
always nice to her, often turned up with flowers which he gallantly said were for them both, even as he embraced Shivaun and complimented her appearance.

But it was Shivaun’s provocatively perfect appearance, oddly, that cemented their camaraderie. When the third month’s rent was due, Alana was forced to go cap-in-hand and mumble a
mortifying confession.

‘Shivaun … I’m really sorry, I’m a bit short this month, my cheque might bounce … could you possibly give me a few days’ grace?’

She’d dreaded this conversation, felt like a child apologising to teacher for not having its homework done. When Shivaun smiled, she nearly fainted.

‘Let me guess. The money for the gym, huh?’

Yes. It was. Alana, in her increasing desperation to lose weight, had joined such a horrendously expensive gym that she would have to use it to justify it.

‘Yes. I feel so guilty – but Jesus Christ, Shivaun, you’re barely eight stone, you don’t know how it feels to—’

‘To have adorable dimples and rosy skin and baby-blue eyes? I’d imagine it feels as lovely as it looks.’

Alana was astonished, as much by the unexpected compliment as by the sudden sting of tears in her eyes. Nobody had ever commented favourably on her appearance since she was five years old.

‘Well, I – I’d much rather have racehorse legs and gorgeous auburn hair like yours, I’ve always thought red is fabulous—’

Shivaun’s hair was in fact a dark umber shade that only showed its true colours when the sun was on it, and she fiddled constantly with the ends of it, but it was certainly glossier than
Alana’s mangled mop which had originally been strawberry blonde, and virtually every colour since. The hairdresser was always luring her into experiments with fresh promises of beauty and
glamour.

Shivaun looked candidly at her, with the hazel eyes that dissimulated but never lied. ‘Alana, I know you’re a bit touchy about your appearance, but can I tell you something
frankly?’

Alana quailed. ‘What?’

‘You’re lovely. Not because you spend a ton of money on cosmetics and hairdos and gyms and clothes, but because you smile so much. You laugh and you make me laugh and I love you for
it.’

Alana gaped. She knew her family loved her but none of them ever bothered saying so, and no outsider had ever said it. Now, she hardly knew how to handle it.

‘Oh, come on! I just try – try not to take life too seriously, that’s all.’

‘Yeah. Imagine if everyone were like me, always on the warpath! You’re laid-back and, what’s more, not a bit nosy. When you moved in I was afraid you might snoop into my
affairs, but you didn’t.’

‘No … well, I come from a big family, I know how valuable privacy can be. I know you’ve had a hard time, too. Losing two sets of parents is really pretty – pretty careless,
Shivaun!’

Cynicism was her way of coping with things and she cringed as she spoke; dear Christ, she’d gone too far, Shivaun would kill her.

But Shivaun grinned, twistedly. ‘Yeah. I’ll try to be better organised in future.’

Phew. Alana returned the smile with relief, and suddenly they were friends. They’d shared the house in harmony ever since, and shared all their secrets too, slowly, gradually, in full.
Every secret, except one.

Shivaun pulled into the drive, switched off the ignition and sat for a minute taking deep, concentrated breaths. Thank God Alana hadn’t been the ward sister on duty this
morning, couldn’t be blamed like the luckless Orla! She’d phoned Alana to tell her about Kilo’s abduction, but today was after all Alana’s precious day off, so she
didn’t want to walk into the house now with the woes of the world on her face.

Still, it was a goddamn disgrace! If only that brain-dead minister had listened to Matron, there’d be no security lapse now, no missing baby. Chewing her lower lip – hard – she
jumped out of the car and went to clean up the junk lying in the front garden, the litter the local kids flung over the wall every day en route home from school. She felt like grabbing every little
brat and ramming its face into its personal, scrunched-up cola can.

Trying to keep the garden as Jimmy had kept it was a losing battle. But she tried, because this house was her home, her haven. Architecturally it was just one more suburban Lego block, but it
was where she’d come running to Mum when she fell off her bike or out of the Devitts’ apple tree, she could still feel the sun-warmed porch tiles under her bare feet as she ran to Dad
on summer evenings, welcoming him home from work, leaping into his outstretched arms. It had been a secure, happy home, smelling of washed cotton and wood wax, Mum’s Tweed perfume and
Dad’s sneaked pipe. Later, after … after that Alana had arrived, Alana the experiment everyone said she must make. She couldn’t live here alone, not after what had happened. She
must have company.

And so Alana had come barrelling in, and almost got thrown out again, and then didn’t get thrown out. At first Shivaun had hated sharing with her, resented this total stranger, but
gradually Alana’s cushion-comfort qualities had become a fixture. Of course Alana had changed since then, lost a good deal of her puppy fat and shaped up in many ways, but she was still
always ready with a teapot and a smile. Besides, they worked together, were united in their fight for St Jude’s, a far more socially valuable institution than any state-of-the-art monolith.
Maybe the parents did have to trudge to Thailand to keep it going, but the fact that they were prepared to do so spoke volumes. Its threatened status gave herself and Alana plenty to talk
about.

Shivaun waved to Fintan Daly next door, put a smile on her face and turned her key in the hall lock.

‘Hi Ally! I’m home!’

Something smelled good. Dumping her bag in the hall, she picked up the post and went into the kitchen where Alana stood stirring some steamy, fragrant concoction.

‘Indian? Yum.’

They smiled at each other, and Alana picked up a glass, thrust it at her.

‘Here. G & T. Doctor’s orders.’

Shivaun thought she could drink twenty G & Ts. But she was meeting Ivor later, didn’t want to pass out halfway through Titanic at the Omniplex. As she raised her glass, she
was aware of Alana’s unvoiced question.

‘Sláinte. Here’s to Kilo’s safe and speedy return.’

Standing sideways at the cooker, Alana eyed her.

‘You OK?’

No. She wasn’t OK. But – ‘Yeah, fine. He’s come this far, he’ll go the extra mile, do a Cinderella and be home by midnight.’

Alana grinned. ‘ET, phone home!’

Shivaun sipped her drink, longed to gulp it only she knew that gin was a trigger, would start her on a thundering speech about the mess this bloody country was in.

‘Ivor ring?’

‘Yeah. You just missed him. He said he’d pick you up at nine, but if you don’t feel like the cinema that’s OK, he’ll bring round a video in case yo