“Tell us the joke,” said the bride-to-be. “You remind me of my da.”

“He’d be a Mullarkey,” said Jack, “from Muinguingane.”

The camera closed in on her face. Unabashed, she stared back.

“How do you know?” she asked.

“That would be telling,” he said.

“Go on,” she said.

Little pods of soot stood like flecks of rain on her lashes and brows and in the corners of her eyes. The corners were inordinately exposed. What holds the eye in tension so that it can see? Her eyes closed as she waited for his reply. The darkness seemed to last a long time.

He sat into a taxi in New York. He was quite happy to find the warm upholstery against his back.

“How long have you been driving taxis?” he asked the figure behind the wheel.

“This is not a taxi,” the man replied.

“I’ve always wanted to go in a taxi through New York,” said Jack, looking at the city.

The man replied with words Jack could not understand. They passed beneath high buildings, and arcades lit up, and small ponds that were behind dark trees. A brilliant sign for GINGS, UNDERTAKERS, sped by. Jack continued to talk away about America. Kafka never went, you know, he said. Is that so? asked the chauffeur. No, said Jack. It just goes to show you, said the chauffeur. Yes, said Jack, but he got there still the same. For you see, explained Jack, time is not linear. It does not go in straight lines. Indeed it does not, agreed the driver as he flicked a light on his wide and shining instrument panel. That’s not to say it’s cyclical either, continued Jack. No, the man nodded. It goes, said Jack, leaning forward, in stops and starts. That’s right, said the chauffeur.

Eventually the taxi pulled in. The man came round, still wearing his light blue chauffeur’s outfit, and opened the door. Thank you, said Jack grandly. He got out awkwardly. He was very tired. And must have slept a little. Because now he saw that the chauffeur was not a chauffeur at all. The policeman led him into the barracks.

“I found him sleeping out on the side of the road,” said the guard to an orderly who was standing in a wide blue shirt.

“I wasn’t sleeping,” said Jack, “I was hitching home.”

“He was lying stretched out on the side of the road and could have been run over,” said the guard.

“I was hitching,” said Jack. Then he added. “I might have sat down.” He thought again. “No one was stopping.”

“Where were you going?” asked the orderly.

“I was going to Belfast.”

“Were you now?”

“Yes I was.”

“Well, son,” said the guard, “if you were going to Belfast, you were on the wrong road.”

Jack reconsidered, then he remembered. “I’m sorry,” he said, “I was actually going to Dublin.”

“That’s a horse of a different colour.”

“I must have missed the train.”

“I’d say you did. It’s three in the morning.”