A pillar of rain blew past down the lough, engulfing the fishing boat in a tornado of drops. He closed his eyes and pulled her against him.

‘You know,’ she said, her voice muffled by his jacket, ‘we could come here in thirty-five years’ time and sit, just like this and be just as happy as we are now. I feel that. I know that.’ She stretched a hand out in front of her. ‘My hands will be wrinkly and covered with brown spots and you will have false teeth …’

‘I will not.’

‘Yes, you will. I can see your teeth decaying in front of my very eyes. You never wash them. You never go to the dentist, so in thirty-five years you will have a face full of china.’

‘You sound just like my mother.’

‘But I will love you just the same.’

‘Censorious. Judgemental.’

‘Truthful’

‘Exaggerating.’

‘Just wait and see. I will remind you. This day, thirty-five years, I will remind you. Thirteenth of March …’ she did some mental arithmetic’… two thousand and thirty.’

‘It’s a date.’

Fuck it. Fuck it. Fuck everything and everyone and life and death. He opened his eyes. His pillow was wet and salty, as her hair had been. The rain had stopped and light from the street-lamps trembled through his window. Pansy breathed gently on the floor at the foot of the bed.

I turn on the radio.

First thing I do.

Stretch the hand out, grope grope through the books and the glass of water, the pills in their shiny wrappers.

Eat me.

Take two.

First thing, last thing, after every meal.

White, brown, tiny yellow pills, pick me ups, slow me downs, put me to sleep. Rock a bye baby on the tree top.

What I really need but haven’t yet said to Doctor are get up and go pills, paint the town red pills, today is the first day of my life pills. But let’s face it, he won’t give them to me. When I ask for them he will say in that soothing voice of his, ‘It all takes time, Clara. You must have patience. Easy does it Clara.’

Anyway the bastard is in Oughterard, murdering fish.

I think I may have to open my eyes to find the radio, to see if it is daylight, to find out if I am alive or dead. I think I am probably alive, as the act of stretching plucks painfully at my side.

‘Morning, Ireland.’ A familiar, scratchy voice. I have hit the right button.

‘Morning, David Hanley,’ I mutter back and let the sound of what is going on in this great little island invade my waking mind.

The telephone rings.

Oh God, Morning Ireland has just started and the telephone rings.

This is too early even for Mother.

Unless of course there is a crisis.

And I suppose that if I let it go on ringing and ringing it will wake your man upstairs – and Pansy.