“I’m charging him with being drunk in a public place,” said the guard.

“Right.” The orderly was taking out a clean sheet and about to write down the details of what happened when the sergeant appeared.

“That’s Jack Ferris,” declared the sergeant. “From Kilty.”

“That’s right,” said Jack, gratefully.

“That’s the playwright,” he said.

“That’s right,” said Jack.

“You live only two doors up from me. We’re neighbours at home.”

“That’s right,” said Jack, “Can I make a phone call?”

“Fire away.”

“You see,” explained Jack, “the woman might be worried.”

So while the guard explained where Jack had been found, Jack dialled the theatre. In the far distance he heard a recorded voice repeating the times of various shows. “Catherine,” he said, “can you pick me up?” – he swung round to look at the group of policemen – “I’m in the Garda station in Ballina.” He listened a moment over the phone. “That’s a pity.”

“I’m afraid she can’t come,” he said, replacing the receiver.

“Never mind,” said the sergeant. “We’ll drive you home.”

The guard who had wanted to arrest him sheepishly led him out to the squad car and Jack sat into the back. The sergeant got in behind the wheel. The guard sat silently in the passenger seat. Then the orderly closed the barracks and sat in beside Jack.

“I’ll be glad of the spin,” he said. “We’re not expecting trouble tonight anyway.”

“It’s all for the sake of art,” said the Leitrim man. “Where do you live?”

“Mullet.”

“Fuck me,” said the sergeant.

Dawn was breaking on the Atlantic when the squad car pulled in at the gate that opened onto the path that led to his bare back wall.

“You live here?” asked the sergeant.

“I do.”

“Fuck me,” said the sergeant.

“Here,” said the guard, “you forgot these,” and he handed Jack the two sandwiches in the sodden brown paper bag.

He lay on his bed for an hour. A storm had started. He got up, still drunk, and left three feeds for the dog alongside the gable. He sipped a cup of tea and imagined the first drink he would have. It might be a gin. It might be a tequila. It was eight in the morning when he set off for Dublin again. This time he arrived in the city near two in a newspaper van. He went directly to the theatre through streets that were filled with reindeer and bells and Christmas music.

But he did not stand outside waiting for Catherine to make her appearance. Instead, he strode through the foyer past the girl at the desk, who followed behind calling him back. He fled up a deep-carpeted stairs, ran past walls of portraits of old actors and playwrights, and then on through the theatre itself. He found his way backstage by instinct to the rehearsal rooms. Through the door he could hear some actor intoning lines of dialogue that were his. He stood and listened and then flung open the door. Immediately everything stopped. The actors swung round to look at him and Eddie turned, irritated, script in hand, to banish whoever it was.