“I’m a Mohammedan,” he replied.

“It’s a pity the boys didn’t get Maggie Thatcher,” she suddenly said.

“Sh!” said Jack. “I don’t want to hear about that.” He waved the palms of his hands in front of his face. He sat down. The vodka made a clear path to his brain.

Then she said confidentially: “Isn’t it terrible, living here?”

She had Derry eyes and fine white teeth. She was wearing a blue jump-suit with the zip lowered to her breasts. Her thighs were large. She was laughing.

“You’re enjoying that,” she said.

She poured out two more.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“My name is Jill. We must be the only two Fenians in this neck of the woods. I know the woman you live with to see.”

“Catherine.”

“Catherine, yes. She’s an actress isn’t she?”

“She is.”

“Does she like you?”

“I think so.”

“Well, that’s all right then. That’s good. It’s less dangerous that way, if the two of ye are happy.” She poured out more orange. “You’re looking better now.”

“I feel a lot better.”

“You have a very happy countenance.”

“Countenance?” he laughed.

“Yes,” she said. “Have I used the wrong word?”

“No,” he replied, laughing even more. “It was just kind of unexpected.”

“Would you rather I said you had a happy bake,” she sniggered.

She reached up and kissed him. With her fingers she closed his lips and then held them between hers as she kissed him again.

“It’s nice, the kiss, isn’t it?” Catherine whispered.

“If you are ever disloyal to me, you’ll tell me, won’t you?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said.

When dawn came, the city appeared like a deserted card table. Rain was thrashing down outside. The people who were setting out to work were wearing the wrong hats and the wrong suits. The first cars sounded like the horn section of jazz band warming up before the jam begins. A cat climbed a tree outside and jumped in the window. It was soaking wet. Its fur could not be distinguished from the colour of the carpet. The jacket of a man’s evening suit hung on one wall. Flat blue sea stones from Scotchport sat in a pile on the mantel. On the bedside table sat a collection of poems, Nights in the Bad Place by Padraic Fiacc.

“Have you ever worn a sari?” Harry Bunting asked Jack.

“No,” said Jack.

“You should get yourself one. They’re perfect. I wear one I bought in India about the house. They’re beautiful and cool next to the skin.”