“It’s impossible,” she said, “to talk to you when you’re like this.”

“Fuck it,” said Jack. “Fuck it,” he said. He took a taxi to Helen’s Bay. He climbed into Crawfordsburn Country Park. He lay on his back and looked at the sky. Then, carefully, he climbed over the gate. He took a taxi home. A crowd of young Protestant lads wearing the Loyalist colours were standing, as they always did, up the road from the off-licence. “That’s the UVF,” Catherine used say, warning him off. Now Jack walked down and joined them.

“Would ye like something stronger than cider?” he asked.

“Why not, Boss.”

He went into the off-licence and bought a bottle of Black Bush. “It’s Christmas,” he said. They stood in a huddle, handing round his bottle.

“What are you doing up here anyway?” one of them asked.

“I’m the man that thought up the Anglo-Irish Treaty,” he said. “Do you think will it catch on?”

“Ye’re all right, fella. You like your drink, anyway. I see you, whenever I’m out, taking a bottle home,” one said.

“It’s been a long winter,” said Jack.

Jack called down to see Christopher Nolan. He was sitting in the gloomy inner room of the shop by the Superser.

“Jack,” he said.

“Chris.”

“So what’s the story?”

“I’m leaving.”

“You’re getting out?”

“Yeh.”

“I don’t blame you. Things are getting bad up here again. You can smell it in the air. It’s coming into summer. That’s always the worst time.” He snapped open the lid on a can of lager. “You want to come over to the pad after?”

“Not today. Why don’t you come over to our place?”

“Would that be wise? Your old lady might not like it.”

“She won’t mind.”

At six they were sitting in the house drinking vodka and listening to Cat Stevens by the boarded-up window when Catherine came home. She sat down on the sofa and crossed her legs.

“So what’s this – a going-away party?”

“Something like that.”

“Are you the person from the bookshop?”

“The very same. Christopher. I’ll miss old Jackie.”

“So will we all, Christopher.”

“I thought you said you were coming with me?” said Jack.

“Sara rang to invite me to Dublin.”

“And what did you say?”

“I said I’d think about it. I said I was thinking of going down South with you.”

“And what did she say to that?”

“She said I was foolish.”

“She would.”

“She’s only thinking of what’s best for me.” She lifted a cigarette and looked at him. She took a can of lager from the table. “I could have a good life in Dublin.”

“I’m sure you could.”

“I’m certain I could. And I could find someone there to look after me.”

“Well,” he said bitterly, “you go to Dublin and I’ll go to Belmullet.”