‘We’re saving your life is what’s happening,’ Bimbo said, the heel of his hand on Derek’s chest to stay him from getting up.

‘Am I dying?’ Derek asked.

‘No one is dying on our watch,’ Bimbo declared.

Softly began clambering into the Hiace.

‘What are you doing?’ Bimbo asked.

‘I want to help,’ Softly said.

‘Go on, so,’ Bimbo said, and moved his haunches so Softly could enter.

Rory got in behind the wheel and Eustace joined him up front.

‘Are you OK to drive with pints on you?’ asked Mikey through the ­wound-­down driver window.

Rory turned on the engine and considered the question.

‘I would say I drive better with drink taken,’ he said, ‘because I know I have to be more careful.’

‘Well, good luck,’ Mikey said doubtfully, and rapped the side of the van.

There were dozens of cows stood around in the car park, gormless as wardrobes. Rory revved the engine, pounded the horn and inched the Hiace forward until the animals began to lumber out of the way. With a parting shout of ‘Up Mayo’ out the window and another beep, the Hiace snarled on to the main road and raced off into the night.

‘Lord bless us and save us,’ Moira said.

‘Indeed,’ Mikey said.

By the clubhouse entrance a wall light illuminated the backless wooden bench and pail of sand that denoted the smoking area. Peader wheeled his trolley over, and Moira and Mikey followed, Moira idly swishing the sword in the air.

Mikey sat down beside Peader and lit a cigarette, nodded at the sword. ‘You forget to hand that over?’

‘I suppose I did,’ Moira said.

Mikey looked with dismay down the long dark length of the car park. He couldn’t see the cows, but they were there.

‘This place will be absolutely laced in shit tomorrow morning,’ he said.

Moira was looking at the peeling band of Mikey’s neck. She reached out and touched his skin, lightly, felt the seethe of the sunburn on the pads of her fingertips.

‘That must hurt,’ she said.

‘Ah, it’s grand,’ Mikey said.

Moira propped the sword against the wall by the bench, opened her purse, brought out a small tube and squirted a curlicue of cream into her palm. She rubbed her palms together and stepped in behind Mikey.

‘It’s fine,’ Mikey said.

‘Don’t be a boy.’

Moira’s fingers were thin and hard, kneading in the cold of the cream. It did feel good. Mikey took a drag, relinquished a long sigh.

‘I have to go in now and root out a flashlight and ascertain which field these cows got out of and then go ring whichever farmer they belong to.’

‘Poor Mikey,’ Moira said.

‘Poor Mikey,’ Peader agreed.

‘You think that young fella will be all right?’ Mikey asked.

‘I would say the brother should have given him a few extra lashes while he was at it,’ Moira said.