‘A dander down the road?’

‘Mmm.’

‘A quiet saunter. Filling the lungs. I’ll be with you. The atmosphere in here is poisoned so it is. Give me a pull up out of this, son. Agility has left me. Uh unh.’

He grunted with effort and possible pain as Brendan helped him to his feet. He stood poised for a moment before he took his first step forward, his hands tightly clenched at his sides, as if he were waiting to lash out at some invisible opponent. Invincible man in his own mind. How big a sin is it to hate? wondered Joe. Or does the black emotion not matter as long as it is contained inside you?

‘I know what you’re thinking,’ said his father, stepping with care towards the door. ‘Believe you me, I know. Have you a few bob, Brendan?’

Brendan nodded.

‘I have.’

‘Let’s get out so.’

He made the doorway and leant his weight against it for a moment, then straightened up to meet the outside world. Brendan turned to Joe, making a tiny gesture with his hands. It could have been apology.

‘Tell Mam we’ll be back in time for tea. We won’t be long. Just a breath of air … a jar … the sitting in all day gets you down.’ He smiled. It was a sweet smile that lit his pale face as if he had moved into a sudden beam of light. ‘Honestly.’

Joe nodded.

Brendan lowered his voice to a whisper.

‘He likes the company … needs it … you must see.’

Joe nodded again. There didn’t seem to be much point in discussing anything.

‘Tooraloo,’ said Brendan.

‘See you,’ said Joe.

‘Come on out of that before your mother comes in,’ shouted their father from the hall.

Joe listened until he could no longer hear the sound of their feet and the mutter of their voices going up the hill, then angrily he began to rattle out the stove. He carried the ashes out into the back yard and tipped them into the dustbin. A bright cold moon grinned in the polished evening blue of the sky. The smell of the gas works blew on the air. Ash puffed up from the bin, choking his nose. He stood still with the ash pan in his hand listening to the sounds of people living that somehow you never seemed aware of in the day-time. A baby crying, the clatter of cups, the rise and fall of television voices, laughter, the creak of a door, each sound quite clear and individual, and of course, but now far away, the inevitable ambulance. The walls between the houses would be silver soon under the moon and frost would sparkle on the roofs.

‘Now we’ve got time to kill,’ he sang, and laughed at the raucousness of his own voice. He’d never make it to the top twenty.

‘Cherook,’ said a hen in the next yard.

He felt cold.

‘Cherook,’ he said, just to be friendly, and went back into the house.