‘Why? What’ll you do?’ Tony asked.

‘Put up your dukes,’ she said, a little sleepily, ‘and I’ll show you.’

She raised her own fists and swung a light punch that glanced against his cheek, mimicking the sound of the impact with her tongue clicking against the roof of her mouth as she did so.

‘I won’t mess with you so,’ Tony joked, folding his arms.

‘Good,’ Karen said, smiling mildly as she closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the window.

They alighted at her stop and he walked her the hundred yards to her flat.

‘I’ll head on so,’ Tony said, half hoping she might disagree and invite him inside, but she didn’t. Instead she took off his jacket, shivering at the renewed chill.

‘Thanks for the jacket,’ she said. ‘You’re a Derry gentleman.’

She opened the door. ‘Goodnight then,’ she said, pausing on the threshold.

Tony berated himself his slowness. ‘Can I see you again?’

‘Maybe,’ she said, then went in and closed the door. He heard the slide of the security chain inside being slipped into place.

He stood for a moment, wondering whether he should knock on the door and ask for the number, but just as he moved forward to do so, he saw the hall light go out and, a few seconds later, the small upper window light briefly illuminated. Then Karen appeared at the window and, without looking down, pulled the curtains, dimming the light.

Tony cursed himself for missing the chance at the bus stop. But then, he’d seen something in her expression, just as she thought he was going to kiss her; not fear exactly, but certainly not longing either. Maybe she’d just wanted someone to walk her home safely, he thought. But her eyes, her smile, the jolt of excitement that had caught him sideways as they stood together and her fingers touched his. He was sure he’d sensed something.

He started walking the three miles back to his uncle’s, pulling up the collar of his coat, pressing his face against the material, and breathing deep the scent of her perfume, which still lingered on the cloth. He jammed his hands in his pockets for heat, felt the bus ticket she’d handed back to him and which he’d kept. He repeated her name over to himself, trying it in his mouth, a mantra that kept him going through his journey home. ‘Karen Logue. Karen Logue. Karen Logue.’

Chapter Eight

‘Karen Maguire,’ she said, offering her hand to Barr who’d arrived simultaneous to her, three glasses of whiskey in his hand.

‘I’ve spilled some,’ he said, sucking the excess alcohol off the back of his hand before wiping it dry on his trouser leg and taking hers. ‘Richard Barr. We spoke on the phone.’

Karen nodded. ‘Hugh,’ she said, shifting the newspaper she’d held in one hand and clamping it between her arm and her side. A beat. ‘Tony,’ she said, her glance just missing his.

‘Do you want a drink?’ Barr asked. ‘What are you having?’