‘Do you live down there?’

He nodded.

‘Which house?’

He pointed vaguely, suddenly feeling, to his own surprise, the desire to keep a spark of privacy.

‘Mmm,’ she said. She patted his shoulder with an awkward gesture. ‘See you, kid.’ She gave a little laugh and turned and walked away, back the way they had come. He stood at the corner and watched her stooping a little over a lighted match. She paused for a moment and her face was once more illuminated by the tiny flicker of flame.

Later that night the army came and lifted Sean Buckley.

Joe didn’t know, at the time, whose house they were at, whose voices were shouting, whose door was being battered down. He lay stiff on the camp bed listening as the boots thudded down the street past their own house, and the battering started on a door across the road.

‘All out, all out. Every fucking one of you out.’ The door went in with a crash. A child began to cry.

He knew by Brendan’s stillness that he also was awake and listening.

‘What’s up?’ Brendan’s voice was a whisper.

‘They’re lifting someone.’

Glass broke and scattered on the road.

‘Who is it?’ Brendan sat up and pulled at the curtains.

‘I haven’t the foggiest. You’re best not to go near the window. In case there’s shooting.’

Brendan lay down again. The springs creaked with the movement of his body.

‘Over there against the wall.’

There was a mutter of voices. The child continued to cry.

‘Kids and all. Madam.’

There was laughter from some man at the use of the word. A sound of splintering wood.

‘Who is it?’

‘I don’t know, I tell you. Buckleys or maybe Foys.’

‘Bastards.’

‘Sssh.’

‘Sssh? Why sssh? They can’t hear. Why ssssh? Bastards.’

‘You never can tell.’

‘Fool.’

Suddenly there was a single shot. With a crack it hit a wall somewhere and then whined off down the street. Joe ducked back into his pillow. Fool. For a moment the child stopped crying and then began to bawl. The soldiers ran for cover. Their boots must have been sending up sparks in all directions, Joe thought. He’d seen that happen before.

A woman’s voice shouted.

‘For God’s sake let the wains back in the house.’

‘Mrs Buckley,’ said Joe.

‘Not fucking likely, misses. Anything comes our way comes their way too. Get back against that wall.’

‘Have you got the boy?’ A voice of authority. A voice like you hear on the TV. A voice that told people what to do.

‘We’ve got a boy, sir.’

‘Right. Get out of here quick before there’s any more shooting. Next time someone might get hit. Come on, corporal, get them all out quickly.’

There was a rush of boots up the street, and then the sound of armoured cars being driven away. It was all over very quickly. Suddenly the only sound in the street was the child crying. The noise of the engines whined away and then the street filled with people. Someone started sweeping the glass with long even sweeps, a background to the rising hubbub of voices and the hysterical wailing of Mrs Buckley.