‘Isn’t it Joe Logan?’

‘Yes,’ said Joe.

They all stopped walking and looked at each other. The taller of the two men was chewing gum.

‘Time you were home,’ he commented.

The other man scratched his nose with a very long finger.

‘How’s your old man?’

Joe shrugged slightly.

‘He’s OK.’

‘Just the same bloody old bastard as usual.’

‘Sssh,’ said the gum chewer.

‘That’s about it.’ He felt elevated by the casualness of his answer.

The two men laughed. Joe laughed.

‘Any news from Brendan?’

‘Mam, gets letters …’

The men were bored.

‘Time you were home anyway.’

The wail of a fire engine, or perhaps an ambulance. Joe turned his head to see if he could see anything through the broken houses. There were some more shots from the other side of the valley.

‘Get on home.’

When Joe turned to look at the two men there was no longer anyone there. They had been, maybe, a figment of his imagination.

The moment he opened the door he heard the voice calling him.

‘Joe.’

He hung his coat up and went into the kitchen.

The drums will beat and the bells will ring.

‘Joe.’

The stove would be out if he didn’t put something on it soon.

She always left a scuttle of anthracite by the stove. He put his school bag down on the table.

‘Joe.’ And then a fit of coughing, great deep, gut-splintering coughs. He took the top-plate off the stove and lifted the scuttle. Batter, batter, batter, over and above the coughing. It was the sound of the stick on the floor above. The ultimate summons. A good blackthorn that had belonged to his father before him. Then the clatter of fuel into the almost empty stove. He put the scuttle down on the floor again and opened the damper to get a bit of heat up before she came in.

‘I’m coming,’ he answered at last, but the battering continued until his hand was on the bedroom door knob.

His father was lying on top of the bed fully dressed but for his shoes, which lay empty on the floor. He had a blanket pulled over him for warmth. The room smelt of sweat and beer and sickness. It had always smelt the same as long as Joe could remember. One bar of an electric fire burned up what good air there was and gave out a little warmth in return. A saucer full of butts and a dirty glass were on the table beside the bed and a pile of newspapers were tumbled on the floor. The grey man on the bed looked at his son with anger.

‘What kept you?’

‘Nothing kept me.’

‘You should have been home by four. Where were you? I’m parched.’

There was a long silence while son looked at father and father closed his eyes to indicate his incapacity.

‘Did you not go down at all today then?’ asked the boy.

‘How could I? I got this pain round my heart the moment your Mammy left the house. I was only able to stoop down and strip off my shoes. I thought I was gone that time.’