‘Five were lifted last night.’ As Brendan spoke he worked at a piece of bread on his plate with a finger until it turned into a grey, inedible lump.

They were sitting as the perfect family should sit in apparent peace around the table. The mother poured golden tea from a large tin pot.

‘They ask for it,’ she said, lifting a flowered cup and passing it to the father across the table. He grunted.

Anyone coming in now, Joe thought to himself, would think how nice. How lovely. That’s what they’d think.

‘Come on now, Mam, you know as well as I do there’s some inside have never lifted a finger, said a word …’

‘They’re few and far between. If you go round creating destruction you ask for what you get. They’re too kind to some of them.’

‘Are you against the whole movement? Is that what it is?’

She picked up the teapot again and pulled another cup towards her. ‘I want to live a decent life.’

‘Isn’t that what they want too? For you? hey? Isn’t that it?’

‘I’m not tangling with you, Brendan. I’m tired. I’m not the only tired person in this city.’

He leaned across the table and drummed with a fist. The teacups in their saucers rattled.

‘There’ll be no decent life for anyone here until we get the British out.’

‘We?’

She smiled at him and handed him a steaming cup.

‘Will you stop thumping on the table like that, you’re spilling everything.’

‘Every man jack of us.’

‘There’s many don’t think the way you do.’

‘Then they’re traitors. To Ireland and to their class and …’ he leaned even closer to her ‘… to their religion.’

He sat back in his chair again.

‘I’m with you, son. I’m with you.’ The old man’s voice was soft with drink and illness.

‘Don’t you bring religion into your ravings. The brave carry-on of the lot of you must make Christ weep. Weep.’ She shouted the word at her son and then, exhausted by her outburst, she clutched her arms around herself as if she were trying to hold her bones from falling apart.

‘I’m with you, son.’

She looked at the old man with contempt, but made no remark.

There was a long silence.

‘What good does killing do?’ she asked eventually.

‘Sometimes killing is necessary.’

‘And what about the dead? Do they feel that?’

‘Ah Mam, be your age. You know what I’m talking about. You never used to be a fool.’

‘Run up to your room, Joe, and do your homework.’

‘I’ve none to do.’

‘Don’t give me that.’

‘It’s true, Mam. Honest it is.’ He crossed his fingers tightly under the table.

‘You never used to talk like you do now, Mam.’

‘Quit it, Brendan. Does it not enter your head that there’s a rare difference between sitting round and listening to a bunch of old men telling their hero stories and what is happening now. I’ve learned a bit of sense. I see only sadness. So much for the heroes.’