Mark found Danny hiding out in his bedroom, and cajoled him downstairs, trumpet in hand. Danny was dressed for bed, striped pyjama bottoms and an Argentina jersey with ‘MESSI 10’ on the back. He stood in the little clearing in the living room where the other musicians were seated, laconically tuning and adjusting their instruments. Danny kept his head down and transferred his weight from foot to foot, working a kind of stage stoicism. People began to shout, ‘Come on, lad!’ and ‘Go on, Danny!’, Mark proudly trying to shush the crowd. Danny tapped his foot tentatively until the crowd noise dropped to a murmur, and with no ceremony whomped out a couple of big baggy notes, just to settle the air around him. ‘Hang on, now,’ he said. He set his stance again, and began to play. He waggled his shoulders in time with the music, his cheeks inflating and hollowing, the exertions corrugating his brow, but his eyes, even as they jumped around, maintained an ironical gaze, unimpressed and forbearing, as if the noise filling up the room had nothing to do with him. But he was concentrating, you could see it in his ­fingers – the way they caged and danced against the trumpet’s curved and tapered body, which opened out into the startling, brassy, orchidaceous mouth of the bell.

He’d played this one before. Eileen liked it.

­Tom – the man who’d come in with ­Murt – was standing beside Eileen, nursing a bottle of Coors. He had the solid, ­weather-­beaten features and wary demeanour of a farmer on a visit to town.

‘Now, that’s good,’ Tom said.

‘He is good,’ Eileen said.

‘ “Let’s Get Lost”,’ Tom said.

‘What?’

‘The tune. “Let’s Get Lost”. It’s by Chet Baker. That’s the good stuff, Eileen.’

‘How are you finding Murt?’

‘It’s good to have new blood in the group. Lord knows we need periodic freshening up.’

‘Is he any good?’

‘At what?’

‘At the writing, I suppose.’

Tom smiled. ‘I’d say Colm Tóibín won’t be quaking in his boots anytime soon. But sure look, as long as you’re getting something out of it. He’s a fine young man, all told. Getting something out of it is the main thing. That’s why the rest of us are there.’

‘How long have you been in the group?’

‘Oh, now. Twelve years, I’d say. We’ve a decent core of regulars. Adherents, like them two lunatics.’ Tom nodded at the women, who were standing with Murt. The women were talking and Murt was watching them, smiling, intent. ‘Other ones come and go, younger ones. Women mainly, of course. Before Murt joined there were only two regular men, myself included, and a good ten ladies. It’s harder for the young to stick with things. They’ve other tacks to be chasing, sooner or later.’

‘Twelve years,’ Eileen said. ‘That’s a fair stint.’