Things had finally come to a head the night before, said Murdie, when he came back in at midnight and there was the cousin, sitting up with a glass of Murdie’s whiskey and a copy of the Belfast Telegraph, raring to go. Why, asked the cousin, did the Protestants who lived in a county with a majority of Catholics not move house to live in a county with a majority of Protestants, and the Catholics do vice versa, and then the counties that were then a hundred per cent Catholic could go over to the South if they wanted, and there could be a much smaller Northern Ireland just for all the Protestants who wanted to stay British?

Could we talk about it tomorrow, said Murdie, because I haven’t really much energy left after a day in the bar.

Of course, said the cousin, but did Murdie not see that if things were sorted out that way, then it would be much easier for everyone who wished to remain in the new, smaller version of Northern Ireland, and the state that was left would demand far fewer resources from the ordinary British taxpayer? Would Murdie not agree on that?

And then Murdie snapped and said I’m sick of effing politics, you’ve done nothing but talk politics since the day you got here and I wish you’d give my head peace. People don’t move house because they don’t want to move and that’s it. I’ve come home tired from a long day at work and the last thing I want to talk about is your effing blueprint for the redesigning of Northern Ireland, because I’ve had blueprints for a new Northern Ireland every single day of my life for the last effing twenty-five years.

There was an awful silence. And then the cousin finally got his breath back and said, with deep affront, Well I can see exactly why you’ve had the Troubles for so long if you’ve got an attitude like that. If you lot are not even prepared to discuss your problems rationally round a table with other people, it’s no wonder your whole place is in such a mess. And the worst of it is, you all expect English taxpayers like me to foot the bill for it.

That did it. Foot the bill? said Murdie, maddened with anger, Foot the bill? This city was blasted to smithereens in the Blitz for standing up to Hitler alongside England, would you like the fucking bill for that? And in any case you haven’t stuck your hand in your pocket for so much as a pound of sausages since you arrived.