Except the da, he looked like a boxer because he worked on the big ships, and they were always in fights, the dockers, drinking fifteen pints of Guinness in a few hours between jobs and thinking nothing of it, and getting into big brawls with Norwegian sailors and great fucking giants of Nigerians and whatnot, just for the sport. They’d knock the bejaysus out of each other and then the next thing, they’d be in one of the pubs there singing sentimental songs together, with the blood and bruises all over them.

Drinking together like nothing happened.

I like that.

But they were like fucking kings, and Janet’s da was one of them.

And I don’t know and if he ever laid a finger on his missus, maybe he didn’t, now I think of it. Because Janet would never have forgave that. Not that I ever hit Janet, no, I never did.

God is my witness.

No, I did not.

It was the Afternoon Man killed Janet’s da. Stabbed him over a bet, or something, no one knew what.

He draws out a knife and stabs Janet’s da through the chest.

There was this other fella there, a little skinny cunt from Cumberland Street, and he says:

‘Stab him again, Dickie.’

Dickie was the Afternoon Man’s name.

So he did.

That’s how those things happen.

It was, like, done in a jiffy.

I hope you don’t mind me telling you about Janet, her breasts and all.

I don’t like to call them tits, like lads might.

They weren’t tits, they were breasts. She had this face on her like a statue in the National Museum, if you were ever in there on a rainy afternoon, all smooth, and she had lovely black hair like a horse’s tail.

I say had, but I am sure she has it still, only I haven’t seen her this long while, what with me being in here in the ould hospital and her not wanting anything to do with me, much less come and visit her husband.

Because I am her husband still and I am very fucking proud of that, but all the same I don’t think she thinks so any more.

Billy, you know, he’d be sixteen now if he had lived, and Jack and Macker can’t be far behind.