‘You’ve obviously gone demented,’ was all his brother said, as he moved to let Joe past.

‘Don’t be always at him.’

At the top of the stairs he called down to his brother.

‘Brendan.’

Brendan put his head out of the door and looked up at him.

‘What is it?’

Joe made a gun with his fingers and thumb and pointed it at his brother.

‘Up.’

Brendan ran up the stairs. He pushed Joe into the room and shut the door.

‘Well?’

He took Joe’s wrist and squeezed it.

‘You’re hurting me.’

‘Well?’ He relaxed his grip a little.

‘It’s all right. I dealt with the whole thing.’ Heroics. The fingers tightened on his wrist.

‘You mean they didn’t get it?’

Joe shook his head.

‘Ow.’

‘Well?’

‘I took it. I hid it.’

Brendan let go of his wrist.

‘Good man. Great. God, I was worried. I nearly didn’t come home in case they were waiting for me.’

He patted Joe’s shoulder.

‘Good lad.’

They stood looking at each other.

‘Well? Where is it?’

He whispered the words. Below in the kitchen they could hear her putting away the tea things.

‘I got rid of it,’ said Joe with pride. ‘It’s gone.’

‘Right. Great. But where?’

‘I threw it in the river.’

‘You’re having me on.’

‘No. Why would I do that? I had to do something with it. I couldn’t have kept it … Honestly.’ He looked at Brendan with alarm. ‘I couldn’t have kept it … I threw it in the river. Well … dropped … sort of slithered it in. No one saw me.’ Heroic.

Brendan looked at him in silence for a long time and then gently squeezed his shoulder.

‘That’s OK, kiddo. Thanks.’

He opened the door and started down the stairs.

‘What should I have done? Can you tell me that?’

‘You were great.’

‘Honest?’

‘Honest.’

Brendan put his head into the kitchen.

‘I’ll be back, Mam.’

He flicked a hand in Joe’s direction and went out of the house, closing the door quietly behind him.

Joe’s father came in about an hour after Joe had gone to bed. He could hear the discords of their voices through the floor. One day he could just go, and never hear the voices any more. Step out the door as Brendan had, but never come back, as Brendan had. Never. Always in this city he would hear their voices, feel their pain. Perhaps it would be the same wherever he went. Perhaps you could never escape.

His father’s feet stumbled up the stairs and his door slammed. The mumbling of his voice came through the wall, and the coughing. Eternal coughing. Outside, the wind was blowing a hardboard sheet against a window-frame and the rain splashed ceaselessly.

‘Hello,’ he whispered, when Brendan eventually came in.

‘Aren’t you asleep yet?’

‘Where were you?’

‘Up at Kathleen’s.’

‘Oh.’