That’s not for me to say.

When they sat down, Penny opened the biscuits and put them in the centre of the table. The next person to mention politics will leave by the window, she said.

Michael said he had a question about Irish that couldn’t wait until the next official Irish night. Jim and Penny looked relieved that he had dropped the other subject. Victor was staring at the table sourly.

Can you explain the tuiseal ginideach? said Michael.

The genitive case, said Cushla. It’s hard, but we can start with easy stuff. Like possession. The cat’s tail, for example. Eireaball an chait. The tail of the cat.

The wife of the historian, said Jim.

Bean chéile an staraí, said Cushla.

Excuse me. The husband of the artist, said Penny.

Fear céile an ealaíontóra. Cushla exaggerated the pronunciation, gargling the consonants in the back of her throat, hoping to irritate Victor. She told them how to make a noun slender. About masculine and feminine.

Friend of the lawyer, said Victor. Is that feminine and slender?

Cara an dlíodóra, said Cushla. It’s masculine, actually.

The table in his flat was littered with folders, ring binders, tea-stained cups and saucers. An empty whiskey bottle beside the empty decanter; another bottle, a couple of inches in it, by a stack of papers. He reached for it and shook the dregs into a dirty tumbler. Cushla went to the window. It would be midsummer in a few weeks. The sky was night-blue, the street a weave of shadows. You have work to do, she said. I should go.

Stay with me. I’ll be done in a while.

She drew the curtains and placed her hands on his shoulders. They were rigid with tension. He rummaged in his pocket and produced a key.

I had this cut for you. Come and go as you please, he said, twisting to give it to her. She waited for him to say more; the moment seemed significant. But he merely stroked her hand and reached for a pen.

She cleaned her face and brushed her teeth, heard a bottle clink against a glass in the sitting room. It had shocked her to hear Penny mention Michael’s drinking. Of course he drank, but so did everyone else she knew, and it seldom showed on him. He spoke without slurring, his complexion was neither rosaceous nor jaundiced. He handled a car smoothly, his cock stiffened every time he put a hand on her. But maybe she was not in a position to judge; she was a part-time barmaid, had been practically reared in a pub and lived with an alcoholic mother. He could be permanently flutered and she would think it normal.