‘The sarcasm.’

‘Aye,’ she said. ‘That would be right. Sarcasm.’

‘Did you get the fags for me?’ He spoke to Joe across the table. Without lifting his eyes from the book, Joe shook his head.

‘He did not. I met him out in the street and brought him home. You’ve no call to be sending him out on a night like this. It’s a dirty night, and they’re shooting.’

‘They’ll not shoot Joe.’

‘Have you never heard of stray bullets? Anyway, he’s not going out tonight.’

‘I suppose you took the money?’

‘Ay. I did.’ The only sound for a long time then was the spitting fat in the pan and a slight hum from the kettle.

Meisse agus …

Worms of hunger crept in Joe’s stomach.

The old man scraped his chair on the ground.

‘I’ll just have to go up to the shop and get …’

‘I thought you were next thing to death.’

‘… some fags.’

He began to heave himself up from the table.

‘I’ll not be many minutes.’

‘I had a letter from Brendan.’

He sat down again. He pushed his red hands out in front of him on the table and looked at them for a moment.

‘You did?’

‘I did.’ She turned round from the stove and patted her pocket. The letter crackled.

‘Well?’ he asked. His hands were puffy with disuse. His nails bent over the tops of his fingers, ridged and brown.

‘Is he well? What does he say?’

‘He wants to come home.’

The hands moved apart and then together again and were still, two rather unpleasant animals on the cloth.

Pangur Bán.

White cat watching the mouse hole, breath gathered for springing.

‘Ah.’ It was a waiting sound.

She went to the cupboard and took out a bowl of eggs.

‘Is that all you’re going to say?’

‘I don’t know what to say.’

At a loss for words? What is the matter with you at all?’

Cecthar anthar Brendan.

‘I’ve been thinking all day, you must write and tell him not to come.’

Brendan agus Pangur.

‘Wouldn’t it be great to have him back.’

The hands danced slowly for a moment.

‘It would be great altogether.’

She broke an egg into the pan and scooped the bubbling fat over it. It spat, reflecting her own anger. She dodged her head sideways a little to avoid the stinging fat.

‘I don’t want him back.’

Another egg slid in beside the first.

‘I’ll not write.’

‘Joe, clear your books away like a good boy and put the plates on the table.’ She poured water from the kettle into the large metal teapot.

‘Brendan …’ There was almost pleasure in his voice as he said the word.

‘Brendan nothing. He’s not coming back here if I can help it.’

‘Why not?’ asked Joe with interest.

The question was ignored.

‘I’ll not write. You write and tell him that if you want to. Tell him he’s not welcome in his own home.’

‘It’s not that. You know well.’