The door behind her opened and Brendan came in, as if, thought Joe, he owned the place.

‘The door below was open, so I came up.’

‘You’re just in time for a bun.’

‘Hello, Joe.’

‘Hello,’ said Joe, his voice ungracious.

Brendan took a bun from the plate and the three of them stared at each other in silence.

‘Tea anyone?’ asked Kathleen eventually.

‘Yes, please.’ Both boys answered simultaneously.

‘Are you glad to see me?’ He put his head back like Dad did sometimes and laughed.

‘Of course we’re glad to see you.’ She was pouring tea as she spoke. Without waiting to be asked Brendan took another bun from the plate. Like he owned the place. Joe chewed. Kathleen put two spoonfuls of sugar into a cup and handed it to Brendan. He didn’t even say thanks.

‘Mam will be wondering where you are.’

‘No, she won’t.’

‘She likes you to go straight home.’

‘Not now the evenings are getting lighter. She doesn’t mind.’

Kathleen handed him his tea.

‘Thank you,’ he said in a loud voice.

‘If you two are going to fight,’ she said, ‘you must go and do it somewhere else.’

Silence.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Brendan. ‘It’s not my day. You’re a great skin, Joe. I mean that.’

‘Let’s all be jolly.’ Kathleen switched on the radio and there was a blast of music.

‘No.’

‘No.’ She switched it off.

‘Kathleen, I’ve got to talk to you.’

‘Later …’

‘Please.’

Joe got up. He still had half the bun in his hand.

‘I’ve got to go.’

‘Ah, Joe …’

‘He’s right about Mam.’

‘I’m sorry, pet.’

‘That’s all right.’

She put her arms round him and kissed him.

‘Tomorrow.’

Her face was soft and smelt of soap. He leaned against her cheek for a moment.

‘Yes.’

‘Everything will be all right tomorrow. You’ll see.’

He went down the stairs on his own, listening to their voices fade, and out into the street, still holding the bun. He dropped it in the gutter. He wondered what it was that Brendan wanted to say. He wondered why it was so hard to speak to people. When you were alone conversation thrived inside your head, but when confronted with another human being, even your thoughts died. A wind was scattering dust and papers round the street, feeling at his face with cold fingers. Would he tell her about the gun? What, anyway, about the gun? Had he ever used the gun? On the pictures they could look down the barrel and tell you. No one would ever know now. Unless, of course, they dragged the river. But they wouldn’t. They wouldn’t do that. A laughable thought. Was Brendan soft on her? It didn’t really matter. She had Fred Burgess. The sooner she went away and married him the better.

Words run

In and out of your mind

Like children playing.

And then