“Move back in here, can’t you?” said Thady.

“No, I must have my own place.”

“And you should come back out with us.”

“When I get myself sorted out.”

He stood in the house of the postmistresses waiting on the sergeant to arrive with the dole. The homely unemployed sat round céilidhing before a roaring fire. He’d take down directions to cottages and the names of owners who were selling. Then one night Bernie Burke, the old fisherman, took him up to the last cottage at Aghadoon. It sat on a green hump of land above a steep fall into the sea. They walked through the three rooms by candlelight.

“I’ll take it,” said Jack. “How much is the rent?”

“I don’t want to rent it. I want to sell it.”

“Well I’ll buy it.”

“Have you the cash?”

“In a few days.”

“Four thousand and it’s yours.”

“Done.”

“You’ll see your time out here,” Bernie Burke said, as he closed the door and handed Jack the key.

Then he returned to the Adams’ house and began the nightmare of constructing their next meeting. He packed his things. Bought blankets and sheets and a tilley-lamp in Belmullet. Phoned Eddie and asked for the advance to be sent on. He moved down to the cottage in a gale and set a row of oleria cuttings round the garden.

He lay on a thin mattress on the rusted iron bed of the previous owner. Under it were yellow piles of Irish Independents from the fifties sitting on the damp cobbled floor. With candles burning on an upturned tea chest, he read the old newspapers. Vigils to Knock, Mr De Valera, Lyon’s Tea. There was a drawer with letters from Scotland and the States. In the dark the storm pressed home. Unclean wings slapped on the galvanize roof. The furies took their seat upon the midnight pillow. He was afflicted. He let his beard grow. He felt the peninsula was going through a spell of speaking evil of him. Everything felt evil to his senses. What was once candescent burnt not at all.

He was the deer with the beard, the tragelaph, whining each night for the return of his beloved who he himself had sent away. On certain nights the breeze would carry the heat-smell of the lady he loved to his bed. The house smelt of goat piss. He lolloped about, only waiting for the day to end. Then, at night, Catherine slipped under the sheets. A goatsucker, she milked him. The sound of the tilley went up into a whine. The time spirits sent dreams to confuse him. He’d wake to find that red whorls, itching like mad, had appeared on his thighs.