“There were these geezers running around in the nude and young boys laid out on a bleedin’ altar.”

“Once you keep taking the tablets.”

“It’s true mate. Bloody right it’s true.”

“And what did you do?”

“We did fuckin’ nothing! Now, if we had found the president of your Sinn Fein running round in the buff, that’d be another story. But these were fucking businessmen and farmers. That’s why this country is like it is. Your priests and your parsons is all witches. Right?”

“Right.”

“It’s not on, is it? See, your Provos have it sussed.”

“Why are you bringing all this up about the Provos?”

“Because I was asked to, Jackie. Because I was asked. Don’t get me wrong. But I said you were all right. I was asked – about you – OK? I said ‘Old Jackie’s all right.’”

“And so I am.”

“Yeah. ‘Old Jack’s all right,’ I said.” He shifted his immense bulk and ran a finger across his lips. “I was there on Bloody Sunday, did I tell you that?”

“No.”

“Well I was there, mate, and they were shooting at us. Did you know that?”

“I heard it said.”

They listened to “Nights in White Satin” as they looked out through the dark curtains on folk going uphill.

The woman who lived next door came knocking on Jack’s door one morning. He had fallen asleep on the sofa after Catherine had gone to work and he came to the door with a blanket thrown over him. She was a small cheerful woman of about twenty-two with dark wavy hair and a racy laugh.

“Yes,” he said.

“You look like you had a rough night.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“Would you have a tin opener?”

“Yes”

The two of them walked into the kitchen. He began searching in a drawer.

“Excuse me,” he said.

Jack walked into the bathroom and steadied himself against the sink. “Christ,” he said. He went back to the living room.

“Will you have a drink?” he asked.

“I will, aye.”

He took down two fresh glasses and placed them on a tray each side of a bottle of Russian vodka and a carton of orange juice. The bottle looked like the old-style bottle of lemonade. He lifted it to his lips and took a snort. Outside two drums suddenly started to beat. In an archway opposite the house two men in their ordinary working clothes were beating up a storm on a pair of Lambeg drums.

“The marching season will soon be starting,” the woman said behind him.

He poured her a vodka and a separate glass of orange. Then he filled a glass with orange and another with vodka for himself. He upended the vodka into his mouth, then swallowed the orange.

“So that’s how it’s done,” she said, and did the same. He prepared the two drinks again.

“Are you a Catholic?” she whispered.