Thirty thousand troops, said Harry, in a place this size. That’s not counting the police.

An argument had started by the stereo. A man with a furry black beard was holding a record high in the air and a girl was reaching up, giggling, trying to take it from him. We’re having a fucken sing-song, and that’s the end of it, he was shouting.

Get the guitar, Devlin, said Harry, and Gerry went to his car.

Joe stood looking at his feet. You wouldn’t see many soldiers over your way, he said, glancing slantways at Cushla.

Only when I’m pulling pints for them, she thought, and said nothing.

‘Give Peace a Chance’! somebody shouted when Gerry came back.

Or you could sing your own song about peace, said Cushla.

What’s this? said Harry.

What do you want to sing? said Gerry, as if Cushla had not spoken.

I’m not singing, said Harry, not a hope. He said it three times, hands up in refusal, protesting all the way to the settee, where space had been made for them.

He began to sing ‘The Town I Loved So Well’, a song about how the Troubles had changed Derry. Everyone joined in; everyone but Cushla. As she listened, it struck her hard what an outsider she had become. In school and in college she had been surrounded by Catholic girls like her with whom she had swapped illicit copies of Edna O’Brien books and secrets. Cushla was the only one who lived outside Belfast, albeit just a few miles away. As things in the city worsened, she had begun to lose touch with them and, on the rare occasions they met now, they treated her like a tourist. She felt like one here, watching how easy the others were in themselves and with each other.

Harry lowered his voice for emphasis as he sang the last line, a cry of hope for better times. Fuck this, he said when the cheering subsided. I’m depressing myself.

The couple were back at the stereo. A Disney record came on and they began to do a marionette dance to a song from Pinocchio. She followed Gerry and his friends to the kitchen, where he made a big show of pulling out a chair for her. On the back of his shirt there were five small interlocking rings in a pattern like the Olympics logo, where the soldier had poked him with his greasy gun. She had a vision of him under the broken pipe. He would have a better night without her, but she couldn’t ask him to take her home. The pregnant hostess was behind them, tipping crusts from a paper plate into the bin. Cushla had forgotten to ask her name and it was too late now. She smiled at her. The woman blew her hair from her face and rolled her eyes.

The people of Ballymurphy don’t want power-sharing, Joe was saying, they want a fucking revolution.

Sorry, Gerry said. I’m neglecting you.