The other two men grinned. Jack had seated himself by three men in light summer suits when he came into the pub. They were watching an indoor tennis match on television. He was attracted into their company because they had mentioned players from the old days. They talked tennis. Rod Laver. Miss Goolagong. Ille Nastase. And somewhere back there, John Newcombe. They talked of Chinese restaurants, which Belfast proportionate to its population had more of than any other city in Europe. They said that below the counters the owners kept machetes. They talked of the long-distance Ethiopian runners. Then saris again.

“I should buy you all one,” said Harry Bunting. “They’re nice to cook in.”

The others smiled at the thought of Harry baking scones in his sari. The pint of lager Jack was drinking soon became a double gin and tonic bought by Harry. They were joined by another older man, George, who was distant to begin with, and tried to withdraw when he heard Jack’s accent.

“Jack’s all right,” Terence Bellue said. “He’s a Southerner.” Jack told them he wrote plays. They told him that no policeman was safe walking in Protestant areas.

“Are you not afraid of talking of these things in front of me?” asked Jack.

“If you wanted to leave our company you could have gone long ago,” Freddie said.

They were young policemen, healthy, intimate, open featured, with a great relish for vodka. They would not allow Jack buy them a drink. Each shared reminiscences with him. Jack said it would not be believed that Protestants were attacking the RUC.

“Why don’t you come out with us one night?” said Harry.

“Could I?” asked Jack.

“It’s no problem.”

“Then you can write it all down,” said Terence, “and tell them in the Free State.”

“You just give us a ring at that number,” said Freddie, and he wrote it down on the top of Jack’s evening paper.

“Then you can see for yourself,” said Harry.

“You’ll be safe with these lads,” nodded George.

“Just call and ask for me – Freddie Wilson.”

“I will,” said Jack.

On the pretext of going to the toilet Jack managed to order a round of drinks at the bar. By now he had drunk about five double gins, he was hungry and ready to get away. He sat back down, the drinks arrived. Just then Catherine came in. She stopped at their table. He was about to introduce her when she said coldly: “I’ll see you in the lounge.”

He said goodbye to the men, who were jovial and understanding, and carried his drink on in.

“Who were those sleazy fuckers you were with?” asked Catherine.

“Tennis fans,” he said. “Will you have a drink?”

“I’ll have what you’re having,” she said.

He went to the bar, ordered a double gin, then went to the toilet. When he sat down beside her he knew something was wrong.