Jack on one of his solitary walks discovered an old record shop in a side street near where they lived. Here he bought a fairly good 45 of Roy Orbison singing “Pretty Woman”. The next time he went he bought an old LP of Cat Stevens.

Each day he walked over there and searched through the cardboard boxes of records.

The man who owned the shop sat in a straw chair in a back room in front of a gas Superser. Through a curtain of lace beads he watched his display of paperback books and records and old Northern lace with the watchful eye of a man minding a pornography kiosk. On the gas fire he always had a can of Fosters lager standing. In his mouth a hand-rolled cigarette. He accepted money for items without a word, so on the day that he first spoke to Jack neither of the two had heard the other’s voice before.

“Do you remember Del Shannon?” he asked, without moving.

“Sure,” said Jack.

“I have his collected works at home.”

“I remember ‘Kelly’.”

“I got ‘Kelly’, too.”

“Tell us this,” said Jack, “do you ever come across an old copy of Graham Greene.”

“You won’t come across a second-hand Graham Greene in this town,” said the man. “The Catholics have him read from cover to cover.”

“Are you cockney?”

“Yeah. And you’re from Éire.”

“That’s right.”

“Yeah.” He ambled over to the light switch. “Do you fancy a pint?”

They walked together across the road to the pub. The shop-owner moved with a slow Londoner’s gait, as if he were crossing a desert that might possibly be mined. The interior of the bar was low and dark. Pool balls clashed. Soccer stars were pinned next to the ceiling. A huge Orange flag was tacked to the wall. “How’s about you, Chris?” said the barman. Christopher Nolan took on a custodial air. They bought a dozen cans of Fosters, then retired to Nolan’s room which was lined with volumes of history on the First and Second World Wars. He had books on the Conquistadors and on the Mexican Revolution. The single room was impeccably tidy. The bed was made like a seaman’s. They settled down in the small library of war to listen to Gene Pitney, early Elvis, Buddy Holly, Little Richard and the Crystals, and they drank Australian lager and smoked Golden Virginia.

Finally, Christopher Nolan played Del Shannon as loud as the speakers would take.

He fell asleep, suddenly woke up and saw Jack, and said: “The IRA it was started shooting first in Londonderry.”

“Did they?” asked Jack.

“I was there on Bloody Sunday,” said Christopher Nolan. “I heard those shots.”