‘Yeah.’

He wiped at his mouth with the sleeve of his anorak. He turned away from the water abruptly.

‘You OK. Boy? Hey?’ The voice was deep and foreign, kindly though, really kindly.

Joe nodded up at him.

‘I’m fine, thanks. I’ll just …’

There was a long pause. The man reached into his pocket for another cigarette.

‘You go home now to your Mama. Yes.’

He waved cheerfully. Joe waved back.

‘Bye.’

Lights from the shop windows made patterns on the wet roads. He wondered where Brendan was. Somewhere, driving his lorry through the rain, the wipers rhythmically pushing the rain across the windscreen. Would he have heard the news? Homes raided. House-to-house search. A quantity of arms and ammunition … damn, damn silly of him to leave a gun lying around in a place like that. Careless. His school bag felt joyfully light. His toothache had definitely gone.

He wondered how many other guns were down there at the bottom of the river. Hundreds of years of guns, slowly being eaten away with the action of the water.

He heard Mam moving in the kitchen as he hung his wet anorak on the hook.

‘Is that you, Joe?’

‘Yes.’

She appeared in the kitchen door. Her face was too tired even to show anger.

‘How many times do I have to tell you to come straight home? Where were you?’

‘I walked part of the way with Peter.’ Here we go again.

‘In this weather. Look at your trousers. You’re soaked through. When will you learn a bit of sense? Away up and change your trousers before you get pneumonia.’

‘I’m all right.’

She raised her hand and moved towards him. It was more than he could bear. He began to cry. She stopped.

‘Son … son.’ She turned and went back into the kitchen. ‘Change your trousers,’ she called back over her shoulder.

He went upstairs. There was no sound from his father’s room. Mam had the whole place to rights. His bed and Brendan’s neatly made and the clothes back in the press. She was filling the kettle. He heard the sound of the water knocking in the pipe. A good sound. He sat on the edge of the bed that should have been his bed. He knew his wet trousers were making a dirty mark on the cover, but he didn’t care. He thought about his secret. His heroic secret. He smiled at that thought. He and the river … oh, and what about the man in the blue jersey? No. He was just a nice man. Concerned. Only he and the river and the flags that hung over the hull. Now there was a word … a good word. Perhaps it would be a good thing to be a sailor in a blue jersey. Inside the hull there would be a warm core. It would be just his luck to get seasick.

‘You OK, boy?’

‘I’m fine.’