On the bypass, a fleet of grey Land Rovers was on the inside lane, bomb-proof maxi-skirts skimming the tarmac. He glanced at her and saw she was still holding the bag. Shite, he said, and took it from her, sending the car briefly across the white lines. Cushla snatched it back and placed it at her feet. For a few hundred yards the last vehicle drove alongside them, the armed police it carried alert to erratic driving. Even in the darkness she could see Gerry was flushed.

The city at night. A ferry at the docks, blue-white lights glaring over its bulk. The amber reflection of streetlamps flickering on the black river as they crossed the bridge. Along High Street, past the Northern Whig building, the electricity showrooms, the cathedral. Slowly around Carlisle Circus and the severed plinth that had once held a marble statue of Roaring Hanna, a Catholic-hating pastor. The IRA had blown him up; even dead historical figures were legitimate targets.

It looks funny without your man, said Cushla.

It was the one bomb I had no problem with.

Bottom of the Antrim Road, still scarred by the Blitz, dim gaping spaces where streets had been. Ahead an army checkpoint. Gerry stopped and opened his window. A soldier approached the car, a rifle swinging at his waist. He leaned in. The music sounded like a provocation, the traditional air overlaid with drums and electric guitar. Where are you going, mate? he said.

A party, Gerry said.

I want an address, mate.

Why, do you want to come? said Gerry.

It was meant to be a joke, but the soldier wasn’t smiling. He looked over his shoulder and said, We’ve got a comedian here. A second soldier stepped forward.

Look, we’re going to Fitzwilliam Park, Gerry said.

The first soldier opened the driver’s door. Step out, he said.

What?

Step out.

Gerry hauled up the handbrake and wiped his hands on his trousers. He got out and stood in front of his car, one button too many open on his shirt, a silver Celtic cross glinting on his chest. The soldiers were bulked out by flak jackets and between them he looked flimsy; hideous as it was, Cushla wished he was wearing the leather coat. The first soldier swung his rifle to the left, landing it in the centre of Gerry’s back, and prodded him towards the footpath. The other had walked around the back of the car and was searching the boot. He closed it so hard Cushla jumped. Then he opened a rear passenger door and began rummaging. The coat landed on the handbrake.

He slammed the door shut and tapped his gun against her window. She rolled it down.

You’ve got the warpaint on, sweetheart, he said, his face fully in the car. His complexion was cratered with acne scars and his mouth smelled of Juicy Fruit.

Her hem had ridden halfway up her thighs. She pulled it down over her knees, but the fabric snapped back up when she let go.