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worries, Mrs Murphy. You’ve been a real trouper. Daddy couldn’t have wished for a better neighbour.’
    It was true. Frank could never have survived without the help of Mrs Murphy and the other denizens of the village who ‘kept an eye’ on him. The care in the community myth actually existed in Lissamore, where twitching curtains were less a sign of nosiness than of a genuine concern. The villagers looked out for each other, and nobody had been ‘looked out for’ more than Frank Kinsella. People dropped food in to him, they saw him safely home at closing time, and every so often somebody would slip into his house while he slept, to wash dishes or clothes or floors.
    Río and Dervla did their bit too, of course, but both drew the line at moving in with Frank. There was no way Dervla would consider leaving her penthouse and her business in Galway, and it would be unfair to expect Río–who’d already reared one child single-handedly–to become full-time carer to a father who was more demanding and irresponsible than any adolescent.
    ‘I’ll bake a fruit cake for the wake,’ said Mrs Murphy. ‘And if there’s anything else I can do, just ask.’
    ‘Thank you.’
    ‘It’ll be hard, living without your da next door.’ To Dervla’s astonishment, the elderly lady’s eyes filled with tears. ‘I’ll miss him, so I will. He had the gift of the gab, did Frank. Better than the radio, he was, with those stories of his.’
    For the first time, Dervla entertained the possibility that people had actually
liked
her father. She had dreaded it when he’d launch into one of his stories when she had brought friends home as a child. Frank would go on and on about some mythical Irish hero of the Celtic twilight, or sing rebel songs, or spout Yeats’s poetry endlessly while her mates tried hard not to yawn or snigger.
    From inside the house came the musical intro to the lunchtime radio chat show.
    ‘Oh!’ said Mrs Murphy. ‘I’d better get back in. They’re talking about rip-off funeral parlours. Oh! Saving your presence.’
    Bowing her head, she made a tragic little
moue
before disappearing back behind her front door.
    ‘Poor Mrs Murphy,’ said Dervla, turning to Río. ‘She’s genuinely gutted about Dad.’
    ‘Do you think she fancied him?’ Río asked.
    Dervla considered the possibility of Mrs Murphy fancying her father. ‘I dunno. I suppose he was a handsome dude once upon a time, in a Rabelaisian kind of way.’
    ‘He certainly knew how to charm the ladies. Didn’t he sweep our poor mama off her feet? How long did they know each other before they got married? Two months, or something stupid?’
    ‘Two months and two days, Mam told me. Kinda proves the point about marrying in haste and repenting at leisure.’
    ‘She certainly did that. I wonder why she never divorced him?’
    ‘Divorce wasn’t allowed, in those days.’
    ‘I guess they were just young and foolish. I guess we all were once.’
    There was a pause as the sisters regarded each other. Then Dervla turned the key, pushed open the door to their father’s house, and stepped over the threshold. To the right of the hallway, the sitting room was in darkness. She flicked a switch, then strode into the room and yanked open the curtains.
    Sunlight made a reluctant entrance through grimy window-panes, and dust motes could be seen spiralling sluggishly around the room. The curtains had evidently not been opened for some time.
    ‘Jesus,’ said Río. ‘What’s that smell?’
    ‘There’s a dead mouse somewhere. We may have to lift a floorboard.’
    ‘Ugh. You’re sure it’s not just rotting food?’
    ‘Sure. I’ve smelled enough mice corpses in my time. You wouldn’t believe some of the house-of-horror recces I’ve done. Let’s just hope it’s not a rat, and that it isn’t survived by its dearly beloved wife and children.’
    The women stood in the middle of the floor and surveyed the room where, on rainy Sunday evenings, they had once