‘Self-expression,’ Dympna muttered.

‘Hah?’ Arm said.

‘I should’ve learned to play guitar. Who the fuck would need a mouth then?’

‘You’d need a mouth to sing,’ Arm said.

‘Fuck the water, it’s time to drink.’

Just after nine, sufficiently wired and amped, the band struck up an introductory instrumental rumble that got a bit of a crowd drifting towards the stage. Brandon stood before the mike bulb, chin fixed to his chest, his fingers writhing along the guitar’s fret as the thunderhead of noise roiling around him grew in intensity. He laughed nervously, muttered thanks for coming, and began to scream.

Lisa slipped into the crowd to mingle, and Arm and Dympna hung back at the bar, downing Jack Daniels and cokes. Dympna cracked one set of knuckles, then the other.

‘Fuck them,’ he said finally.

‘Who, now?’ Arm asked.

‘Fucken you know who. They want to get involved at this end fine. Get involved. Don’t just lecture me because I actually went ahead and dealt with a problem.’

Dympna looked at Arm. ‘I dealt with it.’

‘I know,’ Arm said.

There was a pinch on Arm’s arse and Lisa ranged up by his side. She smelled good, she smelled close. She hooked her arm around Arm’s neck and asked if there was a single man in here with the wherewithal to show a girl a good time. Arm slanted his eyes at her. She tweaked his cheek.

‘Solid but unspectacular, love, that’s you.’

‘More drinks. Go. Go,’ Dympna declaimed sourly, jabbing Arm’s shoulder. Arm shed Lisa with a brusque duck and backstep and adjourned to the bar.

The rider from the farm was there. She was flanked by a couple of girls Arm half recognised, town natives in bitty black dresses, sand-blasted with fake tan. The rider was tomboyishly functional by comparison, in high-top sneakers, jeans and a corduroy jacket with elbow patches. The affiliation with the natives seemed cursory. Possibly housemates, Arm speculated, or maybe the two worked with her on the farm in some capacity.

They were all drinking cocktails, red syrup and crushed ice concoctions that resembled slush steeped in blood. The natives were daintily sipping from straws and watching the room to see who was watching them. The rider, elbows on the bar, back to the din, fiddled in a desultory way with her drink, working her straw through its ice-clogged depths. She picked a larger lump of ice from the drink and slipped it in her mouth.

‘Well,’ Arm said.

She looked at him.

‘I was at the horses today,’ Arm explained.

‘Oh. Yeah. Planning any more unscheduled visits?’ she said, biting down on the ice.

‘Well, you know,’ Arm said, and cleared his throat.

‘I don’t know, actually. You guys have a way of saying that. You know. Saying nothing.’

‘I guess I didn’t think there’d be any harm to it.’

‘You just have to be careful, working with those kids,’ she said.

‘No doubt,’ Arm said.

‘You know, one of them is yours. You know they’re delicate.’