They lived in a garrison town, although it had not felt like one until 1969, when the troops were sent in; not that the soldiers ever patrolled the streets there. The Laverys met them across the bar, when they were out of uniform. The first few regiments were all right. Then the Paras arrived. They liked to leave reminders. Cigarettes ground out on the carpet, tiles they had peeled from the wall lying broken on the floor of the gents. The day after Bloody Sunday, a group of them came into the bar. Even Fidel and the boys were uneasy in their company and soon there was just Gina and Cushla and the soldiers; her father was too sick to work. Gina sat on the stool, pushing her glass under the optics, watching them. She managed to ignore them until one took a bite from his beer glass, the others egging him on, and spat splinters and blood into the ashtray. Cushla had watched as if it was a horror film as her mother strode across the floor. What English jail vomited you lot up? Gina said, before phoning the barracks; she had rung to complain so often she knew the commanding officer by name. She told him in her telephone voice to remove his men, that they weren’t welcome any more. The military police took them away, but the sight of squaddies in the pub still made Cushla uneasy. Gina had shown her hand.

When she could bear to raise her head the man gave her a smile. His eyes were kind. He had heard everything and she was ashamed, more for Eamonn than herself, and set about tidying the shelves of bottled beer.

Nice view, an English voice said. She glanced in the mirror. The groper was standing at the counter, a banknote in his hand. Behind her, the beer tap gasped, as Eamonn pulled pints for him.

She’s pretending she can’t hear me, the groper said.

Perhaps because you are humiliating her, said Michael. Cushla felt herself turn. He had swivelled on his stool and was facing the soldier, the whiskey resting on his left palm.

Come on, mate. I’m having a laugh, the soldier said, so shrilly he sounded like a whining child.

Humour is most effective when it’s mutual, Michael said.

The groper leaned forward, paused, then drew his neck back in, as if he’d thought better of it. He picked up the three glasses awkwardly and went back to the table, beer dribbling across the floor. Eamonn was staring implacably at the television, but she knew by the set of his chin he felt emasculated. Fidel and the others too looked as if nothing had happened. Who was this man?

She busied herself, wiping, tidying, trying not to look at him. The door banged. The soldiers’ table was empty, a couple of inches of lager left in the bottom of each glass.

The regulars began to slope home. You should get out of here for an hour, Cushla told Eamonn. See the kids before they go to bed.