No death or mutilation. It wouldn’t be much of a scoop, he said. There was a bottle of Jameson on the counter. He inclined his head at it. Any chance of a drink?

She found two unbroken glasses and poured. Why are you here, Victor?

Can we sit down?

OK, she said. If there’s a stick of funiture that’s not ruined. She followed him, bringing the bottle too. They sat in the banquette in the corner that the soldiers had favoured.

He lit a cigar. I gave you a hard time, he said.

I didn’t give a great account of myself. Hanging out of somebody’s husband.

That’s not what bothered me. I thought Michael was drawing too much attention to himself.

They questioned me. The police. They’d been following him, taking pictures. She thought of the one taken in the flat and lowered her eyes. Perhaps Victor had seen them.

I heard.

God. Is there anything you don’t know, Victor?

He let out a sigh. I know more than I want to know, he said. They were leaning on him to drop a police brutality case. I tried to warn him.

With all that going on he could have done without me.

I thought that. But he was happy, the last few months. You made him happy.

I loved him. But I couldn’t tell him. And I don’t know why the hell I’m telling you.

I’d say he had a fair idea, he said, smiling.

How’s Jane?

Pregnant, he said. Early days.

I hope it works out.

So do I. What will you do? he said.

Leave.

He clinked his drink against hers. Wherever you end up, think of the rest of us poor bastards, stuck in this hellhole.

After he left, she stayed at the table and took the paper wallet from her pocket. It had been in her basket for weeks, but each time she looked at it she remembered Disco Peeler laying Polaroids on blue Formica. Images taken without her knowledge, each more shameful than the last. She took a slug of whiskey and peeled back the sticker from the pouch.

Davy, his arms around Johnny the Jig’s neck. He had said he didn’t feel much like smiling that day, but the eyes in the serious little face were bright. The photographs Cushla had taken in the park were overexposed, making it hard to distinguish who was who. The ones Davy took were magic. Cushla and Gerry on the blanket, a shaft of light falling across them. Images of the other children as they played, full of verve and motion. Next, the photographs Eamonn had taken. Fidel drinking vodka and bitter lemon, still flush with the money Cushla had paid for the ice creams; Fidel, Leslie and Minty with their thumbs up; the three of them with Jimmy, the elliptical bump of an egg discernible in his pocket.