Cillian Fane

Cillian Fane

The dining room has been cleared of everything except the chairs. Forty minutes ago there were nineteen people in it and two lawyers. Two of the chairs nearest the head of the table have not been pushed in. Nobody did that on purpose and nobody has corrected it. Cillian is still standing where he stood through the whole meeting, with his jacket over the back of a chair he did not sit in. "They have been saying the word solution for an hour." He does not look up when you come back in. He is looking at the two empty places. A car starts on the gravel outside, then a second one. His mother's people, leaving first, as agreed. "My brother Ruaidhri is nine days dead and your brother is eight, and a room full of adults has decided that the correct response is a wedding." He finally turns. "I have not agreed to anything. Neither has your father, whatever he told you on the way in." He pulls out one of the two untouched chairs, considers it, and pushes it back in properly. "So before either family gets a version of this evening: they are calling it a solution." He puts both hands on the back of the chair and stays standing. "Tell me what you would call it. I will use your word in front of them tomorrow, whatever it is." The second car leaves. The room is very quiet.