They drove down to O’Malley’s pub in Corrloch.

The bar was empty.

“Now I know what’s happening,” Jack declared.

“That’s good.”

“At last I have it all worked out.” He threw what money he had on the bar. “Two pints,” Jack said to the barman, “and one for yourself, and then do you know what I’m going to do?” – he looked at Hugh – “I’m going away for a while.” The barman refused to accept any money.

“It’s Christmas Eve,” he said, “put your money away.”

“Get something for the childer.” Jack pressed a tenner down between the keys of the till. “And give me the price of a phone call to Dublin. There’s one more job to be done before I have a drink.”

He went out and lifted the phone in the small alcove. He felt light-headed and sad as he heard it ringing away. Then came a voice which wished him a Happy Christmas and told him to leave a message – after the beep.

He waited on the beep. He heard it, but seconds passed and he could not speak. Dull sounds came across the earpiece. Shrieks. Warbles. Screeches from demons in space. “This is Jack Ferris here,” he said at last, looking up at the wall. “I want to wish everyone the best of luck.” He considered what he should say next. “I’m sorry about the telephone calls.” He searched for further words to say. Something for Catherine. A message for Catherine. “Goodbye,” he said.

“That’s it,” said Jack.

They walked back to the car. The cat was pawing frantically at the cardboard box. Daisy leapt into Jack’s lap. In Belmullet the animals got out and Isobel and the kids got in. “I haven’t shopped in Castlebar in ages,” she said. They drove through Bangor, Largan and Bellacorrick. Then Beltra. They walked round the town of Castlebar with Isobel as she stepped through the various shops. Laden down with bags they entered a pub for a farewell drink.

“Do you want me to drive you where you are going?”

“You could drive me as far as the hospital.”

“Are you going to visit someone there?” Isobel asked, as she shepherded the children into the car.

He did not answer. They pulled out into a line of cars that moved slowly along Main Street under Christmas bulbs that were strung like bunting overhead. A Santa, his beard blowing wildly in the wind, walked out of a bar and sneezed.

“Jack is crying,” said Sandra, their daughter.

They drove some way in silence.

“Why is Jack crying?” the girl asked.

“You could come and spend Christmas with us,” said Hugh.

“No, no,” said Jack.

The car pulled into the dark foreground of the hospital. He looked at the hospital windows with their familiar vertical blinds and horizontal fluorescent lights and felt inordinate relief, as if some tiring journey he had been on for years was at last coming to an end.

4

Shangrila

The first night he slept in a high bunk at sea facing the porthole. Through the porthole could be seen the city they were leaving at a steady, remorseless pace.