“Well that’s all right, then,” he said, but was not convinced.

“Where are you from?” asked the man when Jack returned the photos.

“I’m from Leitrim.”

“Leitrim – it’s only natural,” he replied. “My mother came up here from the town of Arva in the Free State, if you ever heard of it.”

“I know the place,” said Jack, and on an impulse he added, “it means ‘the place of slaughter’.”

“There you are now.” He tossed back the Bush. “I would have thought Arva a quiet place, compared to here.” He laughed ironically. “My ma was a nurse.” Then he brought his face close to Jack’s. “You’ll be safe coming in here,” he whispered. “This place is safe enough, you understand.”

“I understand,” said Jack.

“Arva – I remember to go down there when I was only a bairn.” His voice returned to normal. “I didn’t even know it was still standing.”

“Oh, it’s there,” replied Jack.

The man drew close to him. “If you have any trouble here, just give me the nod. My name is Henry Fair.” He drew back. “I’ll look after you.”

“Thanks,” said Jack.

“Just ask for me, OK, fellow?” He paddled off in his blue slippers across the tiled floor before Jack had a chance to follow him.

“What time is it?”

“It’s six,” the barman replied. Then he left down a double gin in front of Jack. “Henry left this for you. All right?”

He had lost his chance to steal away. He was incapable of bringing himself to go – the subterfuge had to continue. He stood alone by the bar drinking very quickly. Someone switched on the TV. A woman in some sunny valley in Antrim was demonstrating the making of wattle baskets. They changed stations. Up came the Conservative Party Conference where Margaret Thatcher was closing her eyes to emphasize the seriousness of her words. They changed again. A black-and-white romantic comedy from the thirties appeared. For a few seconds the barman studied the silent screen so that the figures played across his face.

“Aye,” he said as if he were answering some question posed deep within the recesses of his mind.

Jack watched the film. It seemed appropriate that he should be where he was – scared out of his wits and yet turning maudlin and drunk, watching an old melodrama. It seemed somehow appropriate. Words tumbled out of his mouth. He called for a gin.

He wanted to feel the sensation of getting drunk, but somehow he had passed the moment of drunkenness without noticing it. He only knew how bad he was when he realized he was uncertain whether he would be able to lift the glass of gin from the bar.

“What time is it?” he asked loudly.

The barman flicked a button on the cuff of his leather jacket.

“Seven-thirty.”