Patrick O’Leary walks across the pub’s car park to his Peugeot and fumbles in his pocket. The key found, it takes a couple of attempts or him to fit it in the lock.

‘Oi, Pat,’ shouts Barry, laughing. ‘You’re not driving are you, you eejit?’

‘Sure, it’s no long distance,’ he calls back, his speech slurred. ‘Be there in five minutes.’

The night is as quiet as it always is in the tiny town, and he could do the drive home with his eyes closed, which they almost are.

As he drives, he thinks about the weekend ahead. He and Marianne had promised to take Siobhan shopping with her birthday money, but he can’t think of a worse way than to spend a Saturday than in a shop full of teenage girls. And anyway, the match is on the television and-,
Hearing a loud thud, he slams on the brakes.

He gets out of the car and sees the girl face down on the ground, her legs twisted at an awkward angle.

‘Fuck,’ he mutters, the sight almost sobering him. ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck.’

He stares at her body and wills her to move, but she does nothing.

For a moment, he wonders if he should call the police. But no sooner has the thought appeared than he’s remembered what they’ll say: ‘Weren’t you banned for three years, Patrick? You know that’s a criminal offence, don’t you?’

And so, lifting her feet, he drags her to the side of the road, kicks her under a hedge.

He gets back in the car, his whole body trembling, and as he drives away he convinces himself that it wasn’t his fault. She was out too late. It was dark. She shouldn’t even have been out at midnight, a young girl like that. It wasn’t his fault. It wasn’t his fault. It wasn’t his fault.

The next morning, the house smells of bacon and he sits at the kitchen table opposite James, his youngest. His head throbs with a hangover.

‘Where’s Siobhan?’ he asks Marianne who’s standing at the hob in her ‘Best Mum’ apron.

‘Oh, that girl’s a devil,’ his wife says over her shoulder. ‘She and I had a huge fight last night about the school disco. She ran off and I’ve heard nothing since. She’s probably over at the Davey’s. I’ll go round after breakfast. Did you remember that we agreed to take her shopping?’

‘Yes,’ he says quietly. ‘Yes, I remembered.’

Marianne turns round, wipes her hands on her front. ‘Sure, what’s wrong with you?’

‘Nothing,’ he says, realisation churning in his stomach. It might not have been her, he thinks, hopes, prays. Please don’t let it have been her.

There’s a knock on the door, and Marianne pulls off her apron. ‘Now who’s that on a Saturday?’ she says as she walks through the kitchen.

But he knows who it is. And he knows why they’re here.

‘We’re so sorry, Mary,’ he hears PC Connolly say. ‘It’s Siobhan.’