He had no idea how long he stood there; it was Pansy gently nudging at his leg that brought him back to reality.

‘Yes, girl.’ He touched her head with a finger. He began to walk again and Pansy, for a few moments, walked sedately beside him.

The sunlight flickered down through the tall trees, just starting to come into leaf.

I thought I had left all that behind me.

Legs move, in out, scuffed old suede slip-ons, in and out. In, out. I would like to run. I would like to come out into the sun, out of this green trembling light. I would like to burn up in the sun, self-destruct. I would like to explode.

Explode. Echoes of explosion carrying on the wind, the smell of exploding flesh floating with the echoes. I carry that smell in my nose. In there with my hatred, the smell of exploding flesh.

All my imagination, of course. I have never seen flesh exploding, only in my mind’s eye. Tender flesh.

Snap out of it, Lar.

They’ll be coming for you one day, the men in white coats. The men with the needles and the straitjackets and the bottles of liquid that take away the pain, if you don’t snap out of it. That’s what people say anyway.

‘It’s time you snapped out of it, Lar. Aye it is. Well beyond time.’

His father’s tired face as Lar had opened the front door to him; eyes drooping at the corners, faded blue now and full of sadness and at the same time a curious anger.

‘You must listen to me. You’ve got to snap out of it, son.’

And he had slammed the door in the old man’s face.

The paint on the inside of the door was losing its whiteness now; he had stared at it, stared through it at his father’s stooped figure on the other side.

The door needs painting, he had thought and turned and walked back into the kitchen. He heard the creak and slam of the garden gate as his father had stepped out onto the street, squaring his shoulders, sticking out his chin, swinging his walking stick with bravado. Such bloody bravado.

Legs move, in out.

His father’s face melted into the trees and a small cloud passed across the sun and created for a few moments shade where before there had been light.

I must send them a postcard.

Mum and Dad.

I must let them know that I am alive.

Here, in Dublin.

City of their dreams.

Don’t worry, I will write on it. I’m all right. Sorry. Will I write sorry? No, definitely not. X.O. Lar. I will do that, later today. I will find a suitable card. Picture of The Four Courts? Trinity College? Panoramic view of Dublin Bay? City of their dreams. Wish you were here. No, I won’t write that either.

Such thoughts brought him out into the windy sunshine; children kicked footballs and women held their hair and chatted to acquaintances, the sound of their voices fluttered and swooped like birds on the wind.