It took a second for Tony to refocus on the conversation and realise to which night Duggan was referring.

‘Nah. I was out at dawn. You?’

‘A bit later than that,’ Duggan said. ‘They held me the guts of the three days.’

‘Jesus, why?’

‘They must have thought they’d get something on me eventually. Fuckers think they can wear you down.’

Karen finished the last of her wine and, a little unsteadily, stood and began picking her way towards the kitchen. Tony drained his pint and stood. ‘I’m going to grab a drink. Do you fancy something?’

‘Not as much as you, obviously,’ Duggan said, glancing past him to where Karen squeezed her way through the mass of partygoers. ‘I’d keep it in your pants, big man. She’s a cold one.’

Tony nodded in acknowledgment of the advice even as he dismissed it. He pushed his way through the group near him and made his way into the kitchen. Karen was standing at the sink, examining the boxes of wine set up there.

He could see her better now. She was lithe, medium height, her brown hair loose and curling around her shoulders. She stood with her head cocked to one side, studying the choices in front of her. When Tony spoke, she turned to him, a smile already ghosting her lips, her eyebrows raised suggestively.

‘What kind of wine do they have?’ Tony asked.

‘It’s a Chilean Chardonnay,’ she said. ‘1986.’

‘I meant was it red or white,’ Tony asked, deliberately thickening his Derry accent.

‘You’re on the beer anyway,’ she said, laughing. ‘You shouldn’t mix the grain and the grape.’

‘I’d offer to buy you one, but it’s free. Can I pour you a drink?’

She nodded. ‘I’m Karen,’ she said.

‘I know. I heard your friend calling you.’

‘I noticed,’ Karen said. ‘That was a subtle way of asking you your name.’

‘I’m a Derry man,’ Tony said. ‘Subtlety is wasted on us. Tony Canning.’

‘I’ll bear that in mind, Tony Canning.’

Later, someone produced a guitar in the living room and, as the conversations died, they started singing rebel songs. Tony and Karen stood together at the entrance to the kitchen and listened. At one point, as she shifted to allow someone to pass her, she pressed against him, their arms touching, the heat of the skin of her arm electric against his, her hand hanging loose, her fingers brushing against his fingers. He looked at her and she smiled, though the contact did not go any further and, after a moment, she shifted wine glass from one hand to the other as she joined in the chorus of ‘The Ould Triangle’, her voice soft and light.

After one, she told him that she had to go home.

‘Are you far?’

‘A mile or so,’ she said. ‘I’ll get the night bus.’

‘I’ll walk you,’ Tony offered.

‘The bus is quicker. And safer.’

‘I’ll come with, if you like. I’m out that way myself.’

She raised a disbelieving eyebrow, then laughed lightly and nodded. ‘If you like.’