“I don’t have to answer that,” she said.

“As a matter of fact, you’re a Romantic.”

“It still,” she replied, “has a certain allure.” Then staring him down she said: “Why can’t you give me something to do that I can get my teeth into?”

He pressed the exit sign on his computer.

“See this?” he said, “This is what I do all day. I don’t read. I watch. I add up. I edit I work for the BBC. I drive home. When I wake up at night I look out the window to see if the car is still there. I see my neighbours stretched out on the ground looking under theirs. So I know immediately what they work at. My brother-in-law is pounding at the door. He’s a policeman. What’s he asking for? Drink. I go to sleep with him sitting downstairs watching videos. He’s drinking gin. His sister, my wife, is drinking gin beside him. They’re having a party. So you see, you’re not the only one. This is your problem, Catherine, and this is my problem. This is what I do. Exit. Enter. OK?”

“I understand,” said Catherine.

She walked down a corridor past a window that looked into the radio newsroom. Already the girl had her finger on the switch that a moment later would release a song by Michael Jackson when the last news item from the province had been read, the last denunciation of the latest outrage expressed. Drunk, a news editor passed by oblivious of her, his bow tie soaked in port and hanging askew. Ian Paisley sat in a room waiting to be interviewed on agriculture grants within the EEC. His briefcase, stuffed to overflowing with Euro-speak, sat on the lap of the young economics expert he employed. The accountant looked tiny beside the rangy Reverend. They sat there like two passengers in an aeroplane. Next to them was a room full of Catholic schoolchildren in gymslips and uniforms who suddenly rose to sing an extract from Annie Get Your Gun. Catherine, near to tears, stood outside listening.

A porter threw a nut in the air and caught it in his mouth.

He, too, began to sing along with the children.