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‘Marina was there for some of the time. See, here.’ She pushed one of the pictures towards him with the tip of her finger.
‘Here’s Marina with Tony and the kids. Hard to believe that a couple of weeks later she was dead.’
    Even without his glasses McLoughlin recognized her. The same wide smile, high cheekbones, dark eyes and glossy hair. ‘Look,’ his voice was embarrassed, ‘look, really, your
friend is very nice and I’m sure she’s in a terrible state, but I can do nothing for her. I’m not a guard any longer. I’m a civilian. Even if I wanted to I don’t have
the access. I don’t have the facilities. Best thing she can do is accept that her daughter took her own life. Or if she can’t why doesn’t she get back on to the Blessington
police? Brian Dooley is a good guy. He’ll listen to her.’ He pushed the picture towards Janet and stood up. ‘I’d better go. I’m trying to stay off the drink and all
that goes with it. I’m off to France in a week or so. Sorry, Janet, it’s not my scene any longer. OK?’
    He didn’t look to see how she would respond. He picked up his coat and stepped away from the table.
    ‘See you round, Tony.’ He headed for the door.
    Didn’t want to get involved. Didn’t want to know about another woman’s grief for her dead daughter. Had enough of that with Margaret and Mary. Look at the
trouble it had got him into. He’d wound up in a nursing-home for six months after that night in the cottage in Ballyknockan. First of all he’d gone on a bender. Then the doctor had
prescribed anti-depressants. Eventually he’d gone to the welfare officer. A nice guy. Checked him into a private clinic in Glenageary. Lots of very sweet Filipina nurses. He slept and ate
plenty of healthy meals. He watched a lot of daytime TV. And he went for therapy. For the first few sessions he did nothing but cry. The therapist was an American, a woman of about his own age,
with pale blonde hair, like a Scandinavian’s, pulled into a loose bun on top of her head. She didn’t say much. When he began to talk he spoke of his father. Over and over again he told
the story of the day he died. It was a Thursday. The first Thursday in the month. Children’s allowance day. A big pay-out at the local post office. There should have been an armed escort.
Should have been, but wasn’t. After the death of Joe McLoughlin there was always an armed escort. He was the blood sacrifice. He was the one who’d had to die. The Provos were waiting
for the Securicor van. There were two of them hanging around the bookie’s next door. A third was in the car parked outside. When Joe and his partner drove up he flashed his lights to get the
guy to move up a space so they could park in the best position. The guy wouldn’t move. Joe got out of the car and walked towards him. Just as the two raiders, their balaclavas pulled down,
came running from the post office, dragging the money sacks behind them. And the guy in the car aimed his gun right at Joe’s face. He blew half of it away.
    ‘I heard about it immediately. I was a rookie working in the Bridewell. Word came over the radio that a guard had been killed in Dundrum. I knew it was my father. There was this terrible
silence. And the look on all their faces. His body was brought to the morgue in Store Street. They asked me to identify him. I didn’t want to. I was scared of seeing him. And then my mother
arrived. I let her do it. I rationalized it. I said it was her right. She was his next of kin. But it wasn’t that. I was a coward. I was too scared. I let him down. I was his son. I should
have been brave enough to acknowledge the way he would go into the grave. But I couldn’t do it. And I’ve never been able to forgive myself.’
    ‘And your mother?’ The therapist’s voice was low. ‘What did she say?’
    ‘We never talked about it. She identified him. She sat with him for as long as they would let her. I don’t know what she thought.’