A little while later they walked down the grey pier at Ballyglass which was full of scolding seagulls and silent fishermen. Hugh drove up in a blue Toyota.

The Blue Cormorant, a steel forty-footer, worked out of Killalla. Jack brought with him new sea gear, a number of notebooks which he wrapped in cellophane, a pair of boots he’d bought in Lavell’s and a pair of new, tough jeans.

The Blue Cormorant steamed out from Killalla with the grey, illegal multi-filament salmon nets stored in her hold. As they hauled the first net in beyond Achill Island a shark skidded by below the winch. A salmon that came up with the net was cut perfectly straight across the middle with one clean bite. The skipper ran to stern with his rifle, but the shark had gone.

“Fucking bastard,” he said.

Later that day a playful seal rose beside the shore buoy. The skipper shot it straight through the heart.

“Fucking seals,” he said.

“If you’re going to shoot seals,” said Jack, “you can count me out of this crew.”

“What are you,” roared the skipper, “some kind of environmentalist?”

“He’s right,” replied a Northerner, who was hauling alongside Jack, “we are out here to fish salmon, not to shoot seals.”

“I’ve got some fucking crew,” said Daley, the skipper. “By Jesus, have I got a crew.” He replaced the rifle. “Bastards,” he said. He drove forward at top revs. “Cunts.” He flew along the swirling sheets in a fury. “Fishermen, my arse!” he shouted, and turned in an arc by the buoy and cut the engine. They drifted there, as Hugh turned herrings on a pan, buttered bread and watched the pork chops swimming to and fro in a hot froth of cooking oil. At the wheel skipper Daley stood with his arms folded looking scornfully towards America.

It took over a fortnight before Jack could settle down on board. His hands had softened, the net bit into his palms and his dreams were not dreams at all. His sleep was not sleep. It was one long hallucinogenic recall of an undefinable city, where people harangued and jibed and whinged. Gurning. Then followed lowered voices you might hear from a house in mourning. A house of leaded lights and stained glass perched on the edge of reality, on a street somewhere beyond consciousness.

As he lay on his bunk waiting for sleep, a black-and-white roll call of images would light up on some psychic screen in his mind. Always at sea it began. Blame. Sorrow. Elation. Jack would remember her shoulder blades warm against him. The sweetness would be unbearable. Love smells. Woman smells. The small of her back. The two of them turning in their sleep so that they both faced the same way.