And now it was falling back on him.

How was he going to do it?

Stop it!

It wasn't that he minded doing more work, or even thought about the work. Flo was not someone who worked for him. She was his partner. In some fundamental way, he felt he was half her, she half him.

And their life together – his job, her competence, the boys – had taken every bit of both of them together. How could that continue with only half of them? It wasn't a matter of shaking the thoughts because they weren't really thoughts.

He was resting his weight on his arms and hands, which were planted on either side of the sink, fighting vertigo. The ground felt as though it was going to give way to an echoing abyss.

He raised his head and the strip of morning hadn't grown appreciably wider.

After Mass, after the ashes, Dooher thought he would let Christina come to him, rather than approach her. Waiting on the steps outside, he watched the rain come down.

'Mr Dooher?'

He turned with a practiced look of surprise mingled with curiosity, then took an extra moment to place who she was, exactly. He knew her, but…

'Christina,' she said, reminding him.

'Oh, of course, Christina. Sorry, I'm not quite awake.'

'I know. Getting up this morning was a little…'

'Hey, we're here. That's what counts in the eyes of God.'

'The eyes of God,' she repeated.

'Penance,' he said. 'Lent. Some people need Thanksgiving or Christmas. I need the reminder about dust to dust, ashes to ashes.' He shrugged. 'One of the occupational hazards of lawyers is that we tend to think that what we do on a daily basis is important.'

'It is important, wouldn't you say? I mean, people's lives, solving their problems.'