He pulled the hood of his anorak up over his head and ran. The rain made a good excuse for running. He didn’t want to be the only running person in the whole city. He ran as fast as he could, not looking to left or right in case he saw Kathleen. There was nobody much about. A few wet prams stood outside the shops under the flats. The windows of the shops themselves were steamed over. Some gardeners from the council stamped their feet with cold and impatience as they waited in the shelter of the flats for the rain to slacken off. Their spades and forks grew like plants from the newly-turned earth on the hillside. The high grey walls had seen it all before. Tragedy, comedy, guns in small boys’ school bags, left them cold. He walked soberly up the steps. His trousers were all splashed with mud. His jaw throbbed dismally. There was no one else at the checkpoint. The soldiers were laughing at some joke.

‘You’re a bit wet, aren’t you, son?’ said one of them to Joe.

He nodded and smiled, a wide disarming smile. He tried hard to keep the smile in position as he opened the school bag and held it out towards the soldier. The man barely glanced into it.

‘That’s OK.’ He ran his hands briefly over Joe’s body and gave him a friendly shove on the shoulder.

‘Tara.’

Safe. He walked quickly across the road. Almost safe. Almost. He went down a narrow street and on to the quay. Cars moved slowly, nose to tail. The cranes were motionless. A couple of dockers talked and smoked in the shelter of one of the warehouses. The seagulls on the rooftops were hunched down into themselves, like sick old men. He walked slowly along the edge of the wharf. In front of him a timber ship lay, its flags sad in the rain. He stepped carefully over one of the huge ropes attaching it to the wharf. He opened his bag and groped into it with cold, wet fingers. A man in a blue jersey leaned over the ship’s rail smoking. He didn’t seem to mind the rain. He dropped his butt in the river and turned away. Joe pulled the gun out of the bag and dropped it down the side of the wharf. It seemed to fall so slowly. Slower than anything before had ever fallen. He stood, rooted to the ground, waiting for it to disappear, be gone. It splashed into the water, and mesmerising circles grew out and out towards the centre of the river. He dropped the bag on the ground and, leaning out over the brown water, was sick. A white gush of water poured out from the side of the ship. There was turbulence. There was definitely no longer any gun.

‘Hey, hey, you boy.’

The man in the blue jersey called down to him.

‘You OK?’

‘I’ve been sick.’

‘You eat too much dinner?’