Someone called his name and he raised his hands apologetically, moving away from her, towards the piano. A glissando sounded that made everyone laugh. She moved a few feet aside, tucking herself into a corner by the door for a better view. He began to play, a slow, bluesy song she recognised from one of the Ottilie Patterson records.

I travel for Jesus, most of my life,

I’ve travelled o’er land and sea,

But I’m planning to take a last trip to the sky,

That will be the last move for me.

A couple had moved in front of her and she could no longer see him. Without the distraction of his face, she heard something in his voice she hadn’t noticed. A plaintive tone, both like and very unlike him.

When I move to the sky,

Up to heaven up high,

What a wonderful time that will be,

I’m ready to go washed in Calvary’s flow,

That will be the last move for me.

He found her in the garden, smoking one of Mrs Coyle’s Embassy Regals.

You’re full of surprises, she said, looking at the ground.

He turned her face to his. Why the fuck are you crying?

Your language has really deteriorated since you met me.

What is it?

I got a weird feeling again. When you were singing that song.

He took the cigarette from her hand and smoked the last drag. You Catholics are highly suggestible, he said. Come back inside.

I don’t have one more word in me for those people.

All right. Let’s go home.

The flat was home for neither of them, but she liked that he had called it that. He went in search of their jackets and Cushla stood at the back door and told Mrs Coyle they were sneaking away.

I wouldn’t have any of them ones looking down on me, said Mrs Coyle. I clean for some of them. Dirtbirds.

I want to stay now, and hear every minging detail, said Cushla.

Michael came back and touched Mrs Coyle’s shoulder as they left. Cushla heard him say he would phone her when he had more information.

He swung her hand as they went up the road, pausing at the barracks, saying he wanted to have a chinwag with their friend from earlier. A security light came on and she pulled him away. A few steps further on he lit a cigarette, the match briefly illuminating his face. It shocked her, how gaunt it was, but then he smiled and looked like himself. He began to sing the song again. She hushed him, tugging him past the tall terraces. The street light outside his house was broken, the sky above them the colour of a bruise. He pushed her on to the bonnet of his car and parted her legs.

You are so pissed, she said.