“I wouldn’t know about these things.”

The man called over to his companion. “Hey, Willy. Come here till I ask ya.” The man with the glasses got up. The two turned aside and spoke quietly together a few moments. Jack looked uneasily at the two drinks beside him.

“Are you rightly?” Willy asked Jack as he took the other’s place.

“I’m fine,” said Jack, “Can I get a drink for us?”

“Sure thing. Go ahead there.”

Jack ordered three more Malt Bushes.

“What sort of stuff do you write?”

“Love stories,” said Jack.

“What religion are you?” interrupted Bertie from behind.

For a long moment Jack turned the question over in his mind.

“I’m Protestant,” Jack answered.

“You’re no Prod,” Bertie shouted. “You don’t fool me!”

Jack saw that people were leaving the bar very fast. Behind his back the tables emptied. The barman was clearing away. The man leaned forward to Jack. “You are probably one fucking Provo. I can see it in your eye.” He moved closer to Jack. “I’ve looked into many a terrorist’s eye, in Israel and in Cyprus, and I know one when I see one.” Jack protested. “You see this gat?” said Bertie lifting his jacket to show a gun in the back of his trousers. “You see this gat? I’ll soon know who you are.” But Willy spun his companion round, and the two sat on a seat together, while furtively the barman collected glasses in the now empty lounge.

Willy, tucking his glasses up onto the nub of his nose with his index finger, returned to the bar while Bertie, frustrated and angry, stayed put by a table. Willy called for more drinks.

“We’re closing, Willy,” said the barman.

“Sure thing, Simmons. Three Bush, right?” He turned to Jack as if none of the previous exchange had occurred. “So, you’re a class of a writer?”

“I’m an idiot,” said Jack. “You can see it there in black and white.” And he showed him the Irish Press.

“I don’t read that paper.”

“You can find out about me through the Belfast Newsletter,” said Jack.

“And who do you know down there?”

“They have a piece about a play of mine.”

“Who are you living with in My Lady’s Road?”

“An aunt of mine,” said Jack. The sweat began to roll down his face. “She’s getting old now. A Mrs Brooke. She was married to an RUC man.”

“I wouldn’t know too many round there.”

“Good luck,” said Jack.

“Aye, good health.”

Jack downed the three whiskeys in front of him, leaving just a swallow in the final one. All the time Willy coolly watched him.

“Excuse me,” said Jack, “I have to go for a piss.”

“Aye.”