She found umpteen sheets of paper on which he brought the curtain across in some play that never started. Curtain opens, he’d written. Or: Lights up. No further words. Nothing else. Jack drew back the curtain on a garden seat. On a café table. The interior of an old antique shop. All unoccupied. He drew back the curtain on a bar in the village. Suddenly nothing. Then one day, when he brought the lights up, she found it was a version of herself she saw standing there, midstage.

He jumped to his feet in the Hatfield Bar.

“Name the fucking thirty-two counties.”

“You must be joking.”

“I’ll give any man here a fiver that can name the thirty-two counties of Ireland,” Jack called to the drinkers at the bar. Immediately the old men and the young punters took out their pens, turned over racing slips brought from the betting shop next door and started to go through the four provinces. Jack strolled round the bar looking over their shoulders. People totted up their score to find that they were four, maybe five, counties short.

“Where are you from?” someone shouted.

“Leitrim,” said Jack.

“Nice one,” the man replied. “I’d missed that wee county completely.”

But still everyone was a few counties short. Louth, the Northerners called Dundalk. Offaly gave problems. Everyone got Laois because one of the main Southern prisons was there. Roscommon was difficult. By some grace of luck they all remembered Carlow. Eventually they had between them reached thirty-one counties, but one remained unfound.

“And yous call yourself Republicans,” said Jack.

A young fellow, slightly touched, sat down by Jack and said: “You’ve set them a mystery.”

“I have,” said Jack.

“Do you know the answer yourself?”

“No. I’ve forgotten.”

“Well then, we’ll just have to wait and see.”

“Kildare,” someone shouted eventually.

“Kildare it is,” said Jack.

“You’ll feel better now that you know that,” said the young fellow. “You’re one nice fellow, but I have to go now.”

He got up from his chair and slowly looking back at Jack he went through the door onto the Ormeau Road.

Catherine rang. “Look, I’m going to Dublin to see Sara. She’s opening in the Abbey tomorrow night. Do you want to come down?”

“No,” he said, “I’ll work.”

“You sound wretched.”

“Catherine, I love you.”

“And I love you.”

“There’s something wrong,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“I can feel it. There’s something dreadfully wrong.”

“Come in and meet me before I go,” she said quickly. “We can eat out.”

“OK.”

“Jack – are you angry over something.”

“I’m angry with myself.”

“Don’t be.”

“I’ll see you in half-an-hour.”