'Are you sure that's all I need to do, Father?'

'Quite sure.'

There was a pause and then Father Bernard spoke again.

'You seem a little disappointed, Mrs Belderboss.'

'No, Father.'

'Were you expecting me to say something else?'

'No.'

There was a moment of silence and then Mrs Belderboss sighed.

'Oh, I don't know. Perhaps you're right about Wilfred, Father. It's only been a few months after all. And the way he went was, well, sudden, as you say.'

'Aye.'

'He'll get tired of all this gadding about, won't he, Father? Once he's stopped feeling so upset.'

'I'm sure that'll be the case, Mrs Belderboss,' said Father Bernard. 'It's still raw in his mind. It's going to take time. I don't think you ever stop feeling for people that have died, but the feelings themselves do change if you give them time. I missed my mammy and daddy terrible when they went, so much that I didn't even want to think about them. It took a while but when I talk about them now it's a joy; it's when I feel closest to them and I know that they haven't really gone anywhere. It's not unlike our relationship with G.o.d, Mrs Belderboss. How's your Joshua?'

'Sorry, Father?'

'Joshua, verse one. "Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged, for the Lord, your G.o.d, will be with you wherever you go."'

Father Bernard laughed quietly.

'Sorry,' he said. 'I can be an awful show-off with that one. They made me learn it by heart at school.'

'And you're right, of course, Father,' Mrs Belderboss said. 'I know in my heart of hearts that Wilfred's looking down on us and keeping us safe, it's just he seems so-absent.'

'And I think grief comes from that very contradiction,' Father Bernard replied.

'Yes, perhaps it does, Father.'

'Try and have a good night's sleep, Mrs Belderboss, and I'm sure in the morning things won't seem quite so bad.'

'I'll try, Father. Goodnight.'

I listened to her going past me and up the stairs. When it was quiet, I crept out and went back to my own room and held the rifle once more before I went to sleep.

Chapter Seven.

Late in the night, I heard far off voices. Shouting. Whooping. Like a war dance. It only lasted for a few seconds and I wasn't sure if I was dreaming, but in the morning everyone was talking about it around the breakfast table where the smell of toast mingled with the stew Mummer had been making since first light.

'I didn't sleep a wink afterwards,' said Mrs Belderboss.

'I wouldn't worry about it,' said Father Bernard. 'It was probably just farmers calling in their dogs, eh Monro?'

He reached down and rubbed at Monro's neck.

'At three in the morning?' Mrs Belderboss said.

'Farmers do keep odd hours, Mary,' said Mummer.

'Well I wish they wouldn't.'

'I thought it sounded as if it was coming up from the sea,' said Mr Belderboss. 'Didn't you?'

Everyone shrugged and finished drinking their tea. Only Miss Bunce pa.s.sed any more comment.

'At Glasfynydd, it's totally silent at night,' she said.

Mummer looked at her and took the dirty plates and bowls out to wash.

I didn't say anything, and I couldn't be certain that the wind bl.u.s.tering around the house in the early hours hadn't tricked my ears, but as I'd lain there in dark, I was convinced that the voices were coming from the woods.

I wondered if I ought to catch Father Bernard as everyone was leaving the dining room and tell him, but there was a crash from the kitchen and we could hear Mummer shouting.

When I went to see what had happened, she had Hanny tipped back over the sink, her fingers inside his mouth. Hanny was gripping the edge of the basin. The dish of stew that was to be eaten later that evening lay in pieces on the floor in a slick of beef and gravy.

'Spit it out,' Mummer said. 'Get rid of it.'

Hanny swallowed whatever was in his mouth and Mummer gave a sigh of exasperation and let go of him.

Father Bernard appeared behind me. Then Farther.

'What's the matter, Mrs Smith?' said Father Bernard.

'Andrew's been at the stew,' she said.

'Sure, he's not had all that much,' he laughed.

'I told you, Father. He's got to fast, like the rest of us,' said Mummer. 'It's very important. He's got to be properly prepared.'

'I don't think a mouthful of ca.s.serole will do much damage, Esther,' said Farther.

'He's had half the lot,' said Mummer, pointing to the brown puddle that Monro was sniffing with interest.

Father Bernard called him away but Mummer flicked her hand dismissively.

'No, let him eat it, Father. It's all it's good for now.'

Hanny started to lick his fingers, and Mummer gasped and grabbed him by the arm and marched him over to the back door. She opened it to the hiss of rain and pushed Hanny's fingers further into his mouth until he emptied his stomach on the steps.

It took a long time for Hanny to settle. I tried to get him to go back to sleep but he was still wound up and kept on wandering along the landing to the toilet. Each time he came back he looked paler than the last, his eyes red and sore. In the end he came and sat on the edge of my bed and rattled his jam jar of nails.

'Where does it hurt, Hanny?' I said, touching him on the temples, the forehead, the crown.

He put his hands over his head like a helmet. It hurt everywhere.

'Try and sleep, Hanny,' I said. 'You'll feel better.'

He looked at me and then touched the mattress.

'Yes, alright,' I said. 'But only for a little while.'

I lay next to him and after a few minutes he began snoring. I extracted myself as quietly as possible and went outside.

It had stopped raining and the last of the water was trickling down the old gutters that ran through the cobbles to a large iron drain in the middle of the yard.

Outside, as well as in, Moorings felt like a place that had been repeatedly abandoned. A place that had failed. The dry stone walls that formed the yard were broken down to a puzzle of odd sized rocks that no one had ever had the skill to rebuild, only thread together with lengths of wire. There was a small, tin-roofed outhouse in one corner, locked and chained, and plastered with bird muck. And beyond the yard stretched wide, empty fields that had been left fallow for so long that the rusting farm machinery that had been there since we'd first come here was now almost buried under the nettles and brambles.

The wind came rushing in off the sea, sweeping its comb through the scrubby gra.s.s and sending a shiver through the vast pools of standing water. I felt the wire moving forward and Father Bernard was standing next to me.

'Andrew alright now?'

'Yes, Father. He's sleeping.'

'Good.'

He smiled and then nodded towards the sea. 'You used to come here every year, Tonto?'

'Yes.'

He made a quick sound of disbelief with his lips.

'Can't have been much fun for a wee lad,' he said.

'It was alright.'

'It reminds me of the place I grew up,' he said. 'I couldn't wait to get away. I tell you, when they sent me to the Ardoyne, the place they gave me in The Bone was a paradise compared with Rathlin Island. It had an indoor toilet, for a start.'

'What's it like? Belfast?' I said.

I'd seen it night after night on the news. Barricades and petrol bombs.

He looked at me, understood what I was getting at, and gazed across the field again. 'You don't want to know, Tonto,' he said. 'Believe me.'

'Please, Father.'

'Why the sudden interest?'

I shrugged.

'Another time, eh? Suffice to say the Crumlin Road in July isn't much fun.'

He nodded across the field.

'I was going to take a walk,' he said. 'Do you want to come?'

He parted the wire and I climbed through and did the same for him. Once through, he brushed down his jacket and we walked towards the Panzer, disturbing a pair of curlews that burst out of the gra.s.s and clapped away.

'She means well,' Father Bernard said. 'Your mother. She only wants to help Andrew.'

'I know.'

'She may not seem it, but she's frightened more than anything else.'

'Yes.'

'And fear can make people do funny things.'

'Yes, Father. I know.'

He patted me on the shoulder and then put his hands in his pockets.

'Will he get better?' I said. It slipped out before I could help it.

Father Bernard stopped walking and looked back at the house.

'What do you mean by better, Tonto?'

I hesitated and Father Bernard thought for a second before he re-phrased the question.

'I mean, what would you change in him?' he said.

I hadn't thought about it before.

'I don't know, Father. That he could talk.'

'Is that something you'd like? For him to talk?'

'Yes.'

'You don't sound all that sure.'