So she said.

Bill had said he’d bring them, and they’d climbed into the back of the car like they were his kids and they were all going off on a picnic. Already, he was making it up. He couldn’t wait to tell his wife and kids – his real kids.

He even bought them ice creams on the way.

He didn’t actually do that, but it was what he told Hazel and the girls when he got home. He saw the big cone outside a shop ahead of them.

—D’yis fancy a 99?

—Ah, no, said his mother.—It wouldn’t be right.

—Go on. Where’s the harm?

—Alright.

He had them licking away in the back of the car while he turned off the main road, onto a glorified lane that was all corners and gear changes.

They found the village. He drove through it before he knew they were there.

There was the mass. The priest sounded like a culchie who’d spent his childhood in Eastern Europe.

—Paddy was populler wit’ al’ the neighbours.

—He was not, he heard his father whisper.

—Shush, Liam.

There was the walk to the graveyard.

—There’s the clouds now, look.

—We’ll be drenched before he’s buried.

—We might make it.

—Wait and see. The bastard’s up there, orchestrating the whole thing.

The coffin was lowered and they went back to the village’s one pub for coffee and a few sandwiches. Bill met cousins he didn’t know he had and an uncle he thought had died in 1994. He kissed a woman’s cheek because he thought they were related, then watched her filling a tray with empty cups and bringing it through a door behind the counter.

They went back to the car. His father climbed into the front this time. Bill turned the car towards Dublin.

—All this fresh air, said his father.—It’s not good for a man.

—I was surprised there were so many there, said his mother, in the back.—He was a cranky enough little man.

—It’s a small town, said his father.—A village. They’d have to go.

—I wouldn’t have gone.

—You were there.

—That’s different, said his mother.—He was my sister’s husband.

His father turned – groaned – so he could look at Bill.

—That was how I ended up with your mother, he said.—Her sister dumped me for the bollix we just buried.

—Don’t listen to him, said his mother; she was laughing.

—A fine bit of stuff she was too, said his father.

—Ah now, said his mother.—She had nothing on me.

—She had morals, though, said his father.

—Ah, Liam!

Bill could laugh. He could enjoy their company and listen to them flirting. They weren’t his parents any more; he wasn’t their son. He was a middle-aged man in a car with two people who were a bit older. Once or twice, in a rush that made him hang onto the steering wheel, he was their son and the car was full of himself as a boy and a stupid, awkward young man, hundreds of boys and men, all balled into this one man driving his wife’s Toyota Corolla and trying not to cry.

He drove back up to the main road, straight past the big ice-cream cone.

—There’s a tractor in the field there, look.

—That’s the place for tractors.

His father’s sarcasm, his mother setting him up, the easy words they’d always petted one another with, even when they were angry, the routine Bill had loved, then hated and hated and hated, until he’d started to hear it in his own kitchen and he saw his daughter – she was twenty-two now – strapped into her high chair, looking from him to her mother, back to him, her big eyes like spotlights following them.

He slowed down, indicated right. They were home, at the corner of the cul-de-sac, a hundred yards from the house he’d grown up in.

—No no, said his father.—Go on ahead. You can drop us off at the chipper.

—The chipper?

His mother, behind him, explained.

—We always go to the chipper after a funeral.

—That’s right, said his father, and Bill could hear him shifting in the seat so he could look at Bill full on.

—Grand, said Bill.

He looked in the rear-view, made sure there was nothing behind them, and kept going, to the row of shops, Costcutter’s, Ladbrokes, the chemist, the chipper. None of them had been there when Bill was a kid. The chipper had been a hardware shop.

—Mind you, love, said his father, to his mother.—The amount of funerals we’re going to, we might have to pick and choose.

He patted his stomach. He actually thumped it.

—We can’t be eating chips every day.

—I don’t know, said his mother.—I have the waist I had when I was ten.

She was probably telling the truth.

There was a space outside the chipper. Bill took it. He looked over his shoulder, at his mother.

—There y’are, Miss Daisy.

—You’re a better-looking man than Morgan Freeman, she said.

—Who’s Morgan Freeman?

—An actor, said Bill.

—Black, said his mother.—He’s very good.

—What was he in?

—Lots of things.

They hadn’t moved to get out of the car. There was a queue inside the chipper, five or six people.

—Do you bring the chips home? he asked.

He was hoping they wouldn’t expect him to wait.

—Usually, yes, said his mother.

—But not today, said his father.—There’s another funeral on the agenda.

The ex-President, Paddy Hillery, had died. His hearse would be going past the top of the road, on its way to the graveyard in Sutton.

—We’re going to go up and watch, said his father. He opened his door. Bill heard him groan as he got one leg out and leaned forward.

—That rain’s staying away.

Bill got out and opened the door for his mother. She looked so small, just a little head and a coat. He’d never get used to being much taller than her.

He kissed her cheek.

—Enjoy the funeral.

—Paddy Hillery was a decent man, she said.—Not like the crowd that are there today.

—You’re right there. Seeyeh, Da.

—Good luck.

He got back into the car, reversed slowly, and watched them walk, slowly, into the chipper, to the back of the queue. His father stood aside to let her go in first. She was taking her purse from her coat pocket. He decided not to hit the horn. He went on to work.

In the version he told the family later, he watched the funeral with them. He added the chips to the 99s. He planted himself beside them, the three of them sitting on a wall – he had to lift his mother – as they watched the ex-President’s hearse go by, and the limos with the widow and family and the country’s leaders.

—Here’s poor Paddy now.

Politicians had always been known by their first names, even nicknames. But that had stopped. It was surnames only now.

—He wasn’t the worst.

—He had a bit of dignity about him.

—That’s it, said his father.—Over. These cars here are just caught behind the funeral.

—We’ll go home, so, and watch it on the telly.

Bill didn’t know why he did it, why he embellished, or just made up, his parents’ lives. They didn’t need it.

But he did.

He started going to more funerals with them. The ones that needed a bit of travel. He’d drive them there and home. Men his father had worked with, or their wives, even their children. Cousins of his mother’s. Old friends, women his mother had gone to school with. They’d make a day of it, stop for coffee, look at a monument. He stayed clear of the local funerals, the old neighbours. He didn’t want the conversations. What are you up to these days? How many kids is it you have? He didn’t want to talk to men he’d once known who’d lost their jobs so recently they still didn’t understand it. Great, great. Yourself? There’d be too many middle-aged women who used to be girls, ponytailed men he used to play with, a mother he’d fancied – in the coffin. Fat grannies he’d kissed and – the last time he’d gone to one of the local ones – a woman with MS, shaking her way to a seat in the church, the first girl he’d ever had sex with.

And there were the Alzheimer’s stories. The parents of friends he’d grown up with. He’d listen to their children while they waited outside the church for the hearse and told him about the Saturday mornings or Sunday afternoons, the drive to nursing homes out past the edge of Dublin, sitting with the women or men who’d reared them – who’d helped rear Bill – who hadn’t a clue who their children were. There was the angry, roaring woman who’d been lovely, and the man – he’d trained Bill’s under-15s Gaelic team – who claimed he’d piloted his plane into both Twin Towers. There was the eighty-seven-year-old grandmother who’d slept her way to the top. The top of what? She never says. She just likes saying ‘Fucked’. She never fuckin’ blinks. And the man who’d gone to school with Robert Mugabe. They were all bright sparks, the Mugabes. The stories, the laughter, followed quickly by the violence, stenches, stares into nothing, silence. Jesus, Billy, you’re lucky.

—I’ll hand you over to your mother!

He’d hear her walking across the room to take the cordless phone from his father.

—Hello?

—Howyeh.

—Ah, William. How’s everyone?

She’d tell him if he was needed for the first half of the week.

—Nothing to report. No one’s dead since the last time.

He’d feel relieved, and let down. The fact was, his own job was crumbling away. There was still work – there always would be – but less of it, and less. He sold insurance, group policies, to companies, nearly all of them small, even during the boom years. SMEs, as he’d learnt to call them. Small and medium enterprises. He’d noticed it about eighteen months before: he was frightened whenever he phoned one of the men or women he’d done happy business with for years, hoping they’d answer, hoping they wouldn’t. He’d put it off. He’d drive past, see if the place was still open, then park and phone. The funerals filled his week.

But there was more to it. Maybe it was his age, maybe the fact that his kids weren’t kids now, that they were becoming people he used to know, like the old friends at the funerals. He wanted to be with his parents. Maybe it was because they were old, no longer growing old.

He phoned again on Wednesdays.

—I’ll hand you over to your mother!

—Ah, William. How’s everyone?

—Grand.

—Hazel?

—Great. She says hello.

—I’ve a bit of news.

—Yeah?

—Martin Ferritor. He worked with your daddy, oh, years ago. When he was with Hibernian Motors.

—I don’t remember him.

—Well, he’s after dying, whether you remember him or not.

It was good news; they both knew it.

—Where did he live?

—Well, when your dad knew him, he lived in Whitehall.

Whitehall was ten minutes from Bill’s house.

—But he moved to Wexford, somewhere, when he retired. Is that too far?

—No, said Bill.—I should be able to manage it. I’ll need to sort a few things. When?

—Friday, she said.—I have it written down. Hang on a minute.

He heard her bringing the phone into the kitchen. He knew exactly where she was.

—Whitechapel.

She was reading the name – he could tell.

—I know Whitechapel, he told her.

—Near Whitechapel, she said.—You have to go through Whitechapel.

—We were there years ago. Me and Hazel. With the kids.

—Oh, that’s right.

—It must be ten years, he said.—It’s near Gorey.

—Oh, grand, she said.—Well, anyway, the mass is at eleven. Is it too early for you?

—I’ll sort something, he said.—It’ll be grand.

He said nothing.

—Billy?

—No.

—It’s getting a little bit weird, she said.

They were out walking. If they’d been in a film, they’d have stopped and looked at one another. But it wasn’t a film; they didn’t stop.

—You must be going to a funeral a week, said Hazel.

She wasn’t wrong. She wasn’t angry either. She was still holding his arm. She wasn’t pulling him back. He wasn’t trying to walk away.

—It’s – I don’t know, he said.—I’m a bit stuck.

—How?

—Well, I did it once or twice. Drove them, you know. And it’s become a bit of a routine, like. It’s expected.

—It’s unreasonable.

—My fault, he said.—What can I do?

—Say no.

—I do.

He had: once. But he’d driven them to five.

—Now and again is grand, said Hazel.—It’s nice. But you’re not a fuckin’ chauffeur. You have your own life.

But it was his life, a big part of it. Going to funerals with his parents, or just being with them. He couldn’t tell her. He didn’t want to. They’d have stopped walking if he’d told her that. Her grip on his arm would have tightened.

—I know, he said.

Or she’d have taken her hand off his arm. She’d have stared at him.

—I can’t say no this time, he said.—I’ve already told them I’d bring them.

—I know you enjoy it.

—I don’t.

—You do, she said.—You told us. It’s obvious. And it’s okay. It’s lovely.

Hazel’s parents were horrible. She never went near them.

—But Jesus, she said.

—I know.

—You’re busy.

—I know.

—And there’s another thing, she said.—I’m jealous.

—There’s no need to be.

—Well, I am. You’re spending more time with them than me.

Now she stopped – kind of. She hesitated.

—And that’s not natural.

She was right.

—You can come with us.

—No way, she said; she laughed.—But you can drive your own car. You’re not having mine.

They were walking again. She was holding his arm. She squeezed it.

—Fair enough, he said.

His own car had needed a service, new tyres. He actually needed a new car – the lad in the garage had told him. He couldn’t afford one; they couldn’t afford one. He’d tell her soon.

—Here we go again, he said.—Poor oul’ Martin.

—You’re the last of that gang, said his mother, in the back.

—I am, said his father.—Literally.

She was faster, nippier, like a child with arthritis. He groaned; she didn’t. The thought stung Bill: he’d be the first to go.

—The M50, said Bill.

—Grand, said his father.

They loved the new straight roads. They loved the fact that they didn’t have to go through places any more.

—If we could bypass the whole bloody country we’d be sorted.

—Ah now. It’s a lovely country.

—Only when you’re standing on it, love.

Bill laughed. His father didn’t. He groaned as he turned to look out the side window.

—Where are we now, Billy-boy?

—Past Bray, said Bill.

—Past Bray. That’s great.

—Bray isn’t the worst.

—That’s no compliment. The worst is unbelievable.

Bill heard him turning again, adjusting himself, groaning.—Were you ever in Bundoran?

—No, said Bill.

—Don’t ever go, said his father.

—I’ll give it a miss.

—Do.

—I had nice Sundays in Bray, said his mother.

—It’s the rest of the week I’d be worried about.

—The promenade’s nice.

—Well, that’s true.

—And the sea.

—The sea would be there anyway, said Bill’s father.

—I knew you’d say that, said his mother.

They got to the church in plenty of time, the guts of an hour early.

—We could go have a look at Courtown.

—Then you’d lose your parking space.

They sat in the car, chatted, watched the rain spit and threaten, until more cars arrived and people got out and put on coats and jackets.

—Might as well go in.

His father was straight over to a group of people, shaking hands, laughing.

—The life and soul, said his mother. She wasn’t being sarcastic.

He went with her into the church, stayed beside her on each step. The coffin was up at the front.

—God, it’s dark.

—No light today at all.

They sat where they always sat, whatever church they were in, about a third of the way down, on the left side, halfway in.

—I love the smell of the polish, she whispered.

He could barely hear her. He had to lean down to get each word, to hear the full string of them. Her voice cracked on some words, whistled on others.

—The priests come and go but the women with the polish are always with us, she said.—Isn’t that it?

—You’re right.

—They’re a disgrace.

—The women?

—The priests.

The hiss was louder than a shout would have been.

—You’re right.

—Amn’t I?

—Yeah.

—All those little children.

She wasn’t whispering now. There weren’t many in the church.

—It sickens me.

He tried to say something. He smiled at a woman three rows up who’d turned. She smiled back. A good-looking woman. Well kept. A bit heavy.

Well kept? Where had that come from? He was a child one minute, an older, much stupider man the next.

His mother was talking again.

—Your poor father.

—What?

Bill turned, to see what had happened to his father, if he’d fallen, or been drenched. But he wasn’t there, at the back of the church.

—What’s wrong? he asked.

—The things they did to him.

—Who?

—Are you stupid? she said.

She’d never spoken like that before, not to Bill.

—The priests!

—What about them?

She wasn’t looking at him. He – now – didn’t want to look at her. He thought he was going to be sick. He looked behind him again, to see if his father was there. His father would come and rescue them. But he wasn’t there. Bill needed to get up, out. He’d go out and find his father.

—A terrible time they gave him, said his mother.

—Priests? said Bill.—A priest?

—Yes!

She was shouting – he thought she was. He was whispering.

—D’you want to leave? he asked.

—Why should I?

He heard feet, shoes. His father was there, making his way in, waving at someone who’d turned to look, smiling.

He sat down beside Bill.

—Here we are.

His mother leaned out a bit, so she could see past Bill.

—Is it serious out there yet?

—The rain?

—Yes.

—No, it’s grand. It might stay away. Probably not, though.

Bill sat between them.

—That must be Martin’s son there, said his father.—The tall lad fussing with the mass cards on the coffin.

—Martin wasn’t a tall man.

—He was.

—Not that tall, said Bill’s mother.

—No, said his father.—But that seems to be the way. They get taller and taller. Each generation. Look at Billy’s gang. Great tall girls.

—Is that a daughter up there now?

—Or a wife.

—That hair’s natural, I’d say. The colour.

—Natural or no, she’s a good-looking lassie.

—Lovely, said his mother.—It’s lovely to see.

The church was filling up.

—He got a good crowd, said Bill’s father.

His mother sat forward. She was looking at the altar, the side opposite the coffin. A door had opened and people in front of him were beginning to stand. He saw an altar boy walk out before bodies got in the way and he stood up too. He heard his father groan as he stood. He watched his mother’s hands grip the bench in front of her. He looked up, and saw the priest. He’d gone across the front of the altar and he was shaking hands with the people in the front row, the widow, the children, grandchildren. Bill looked quickly at his mother. She was fine – relaxed, curious.

The mass started and people sat. Bill tried to get rid of the terror, the fierce guilt that had a sore hold of his stomach. He glanced at his father. He looked fine, alert; he seemed to be enjoying himself. He looked at his mother. She was there again – his mother – leaning forward, watching, her lips moving very slightly. Bill sat between them, afraid to let his arms and shoulders touch either of them; the contact would push something, a button, a memory. The priest was young, in his thirties, but he went through the lines like an older man. He didn’t even recite them. The voice was a drone; Bill only heard the words because he’d known them all his life. The tan was even stranger. It was dark in the church but the altar was well lit and your man, the priest, had definitely been under a lamp or had gone at himself with a can of false tan. The vestments were purple; the skin was orange. Chasuble. The word popped open. The name of the priest’s purple cape. It had been there in Bill’s head, waiting. Thirty years. Forty. Alb. Stole. He couldn’t see the priest’s shoes. He wondered were they proper black, hoped they weren’t. He’d give the man a pair of Keds. A priest wearing Keds. At a funeral. He wasn’t sure what Keds were. He’d heard the girls, his daughters, talking about them. Something about gay men wearing Keds. He liked the name. He’d put a pair on the priest. Orange ones, to go with the tan.

She was there again. The stranger. Her elbow went into Bill’s ribs as she stood up, fell back, stood, gripped the bench, like she wanted to snap the wood, break through the back of the pew.

He was going to pull her back. He’d gently grab her, try to get her out.

Everyone else was standing now, obeying some command he’d missed.

She was growling. He could hear her, under the Apostles’ Creed. He suffered under Pontius Pilate, was crucified, died and was buried. She growled – there were no words. There was no one looking at her yet. The bench, at her other side, was empty. There was no one right behind them. Bill was ready now to grab her arm. He looked at his father. He nudged him.

—What?

His father shouted. He will come again to judge the living and the dead.

—Ma isn’t well, said Bill.

—Oh.

His father leaned out, looked at Bill’s mother.

—Right.

He moved, along the pew, to the centre aisle. Bill thought his father would trip over – there was hardly any room for his feet. But he made it to the aisle. He started to genuflect. He was shaking slightly – Bill thought. But he was fine. He’d straightened up, steadied himself. He was turning away from the altar and the coffin.

Bill made himself do it: he put his hand on his mother’s arm. He squeezed gently, pulled gently.

—What’s wrong? she said.

She looked fine; she was his mother. He thought about calling his father back.

—Da’s not feeling well, he said.

He moved, and she came with him. He let go of her sleeve.

—Excuse me, sorry – thanks.

His mother was beside him, in against him. He smiled at people he didn’t know. He looked at the ground.

They were out.

His father was there.

—Alright, love?

He moved to meet Bill’s mother as she came off the last step.

—I’m fine, she said.—Are you alright?

—I’m fine. We’re both fine.

—I’ll look after you.

—Good girl. I know you will.

They stood beside each other.

—They won’t touch you.

—No, said Bill’s father.—They won’t. Not with you minding me.

The rain was starting, hard drops that blackened the ground around them.

—Will we get in the car? said Bill.

He wanted to get sick. He really did. Thinking – trying not to think – about what he’d just learnt, what he might have learnt. His father as a boy. Bill couldn’t remember his grandmother’s house, the house his father had grown up in. He couldn’t really remember his grandmother either. A bottle of red lemonade and a Club Milk – they were all he could remember clearly, the only things he could see. Sitting at a table, the kitchen. His chin resting on the table; he was very small, very young. His granny was off to the right, on the other side of the table. She wasn’t sitting; she was busy. She was talking to other people. Her back, and grey hair. That was all Bill had. His mother was sitting there too. His father was somewhere else. Bill remembered where: he was down the street, visiting a cousin. But he couldn’t remember his granny. He knew he’d liked her – he’d loved her. He knew he’d liked going there. He couldn’t remember her funeral. He didn’t know if he’d been at it.

—Alright, Billy-boy?

His father was looking at him.

—Yeah, said Bill.—Yeah. We’ll get into the car.

—Good idea. Come on, love.

Bill went at their pace, across the car park. He clicked the doors open before they got to the car. He opened his father’s door, his mother’s.

—Good man.

His mother slid in. His father closed the front passenger door and bent down at his mother’s door.

—Scoot in there, he told her.

He stood, so he could look at Bill over the car roof. Bill could see the pain in the eyes as his father straightened his back.

—I’ll get in beside your mother, he said.—You’ll be alright on your own.

—I’ll be grand, said Bill.

He waited till his father was sitting inside – he didn’t want to hear the groans – then he got in behind the wheel and wiped the rain from his face.

He looked in the rear-view mirror.

—What now? he said.

—What’s that?

—Where to?

They both looked small and lost back there.

—Home, I think, said his father.—What d’you say, love?

She nodded.

—It’s a bit wet for the graveyard, she said.

There were bubbles and cracks in her voice, as if some of the rain had got into it.

—Right, said Bill.—I’ll get started, so we can have some heat.

—Good man.

Bill trusted his hands, his arms, his control of the wheel. The wipers cleared the rain off the windscreen. His stomach was grand; he felt safer in the car. The noise of the engine, the wipers and the heater filled the hole.

Wexford. He reminded himself – he had to; that was where they were. His mother had growled in the church. She’d told him his father had been abused by a priest – he thought she had.

He looked in the rear-view again.

—Do you have your belts on?

They were sitting apart now, a window each.

—I do.

—I forgot, hang on.

His father muttered.

—Bloody thing.

Then he looked at Bill’s eyes in the mirror.

—All set here now.

—Fine, said Bill.—Here we go.

It was easy-going, good roads, the new motorway. The rain didn’t matter. He turned down the heat. He said nothing for a while; they said nothing. He turned on the radio, changed his mind, turned it off. They didn’t object. He looked in the mirror

—I’m sorry.

It was his mother. She’d seen his eyes.

—Why? said Bill – and his father.

—I spoilt your day.

—You didn’t.

—Not at all.

—I think I probably did.

—No.

—It all came back, she said.

Bill watched his father nod – once, twice. His father’s hand was there now, resting on his mother’s shoulder.

—A terrible time, said his mother, to Bill; she was looking at the mirror. There was a truck far ahead, nothing else. Nothing behind him.

—It was, said his father.

—But I rescued you, she said.

—That’s right.

—He was in the Artane Boys’ Home, his mother told the mirror.

Something had happened. Suddenly – as fast as it took him to check that the road ahead was still clear – Bill knew he didn’t have to believe this. He didn’t have to change his past.

—We broke down the wall, she said.—We blew it up.

—That’s right.

—They were making him play the tin whistle, she said.—For that band they had. The boys’ band.

—It was torture, said his father.

Bill looked at the father. He was looking at Bill’s mother.

—But we shot them all, she said.

—That’s right.

—I shot most of them.

—I’ll never forget it. The bullets were hopping.

Bill looked at her, at him. They were crying, both of them. Moved to tears by memories of things that could never have happened. Jesus Christ, he thought, they’ve slipped into it together.

—The way you burst in, said his father.—You should have seen her, Billy.

—They had big leather straps, she said.—The priests.

—They were Brothers, said his father.

—They were making you play the tin whistle.

—Absolute torture.

—It’s a horrible instrument.

—Even in the right hands, said Bill’s father.—But you came and saved me.

—Your poor lips were chapped.

The stories were going to get better. For a while. Bill watched his father wipe his eyes with a white handkerchief. Then, he supposed – Bill supposed – the funerals were going to stop. They wouldn’t know who’d died. Or he’d be bringing them to the funerals of men and women who’d never existed. He hadn’t noticed it starting. The decline, the slide. There must have been signs – things his mother had said, or his father. Bill had missed them, or ignored them.

It was quiet. He looked in the rear-view. They were both awake.

—Will I stop at the chipper? he asked.

—Oh, do, said his mother.

—That’s where we went after your mother rescued me, said his father.—D’you remember that, love?

The roundabout was ahead. The end of the motorway, the beginning of Dublin.

—That’s right, said his mother.—They watered the horses for us as well.

—I’d forgotten about that, said Bill’s father.—You’re right.

Bill looked in the rear-view. His father was staring back at Bill, waiting. He winked.