Gina had said the phone had rung twice when Cushla was out, but the caller had hung up when she answered and she had credited the prank calls to ‘wee bastards’. Cushla had almost hoped it hadn’t been Michael. She didn’t like to think of him sneaking out to a phone box like an adolescent.

Never a dull moment, said Marian. She gathered the girls’ coats and she and Eamonn brought them through the door to the car.

It’s been difficult, said Michael. Easter holidays and so on. You’ll come to Penny’s next week?

Tiocfaidh mé, she said. It was overwhelming, standing so close to him.

He smiled. Can you get away for an hour?

Now?

Right now.

I’m going to the pictures.

Oh? Who with?

Gerry.

He finished his drink and handed her the tumbler. I’ll have another, he said, swinging his backside on to a stool.

Eamonn came back. Get the finger out, princess, he said, and Cushla went behind the counter. When she put the glass in front of Michael, he did not acknowledge it. She wiped broken crisps into an ashtray with the side of her hand, trying not to look at him. The bar began to fill up and she was aware of him hunched over the counter, among the regulars and a few strays, including a dapper wine victim from the Salvation Army home, a tarnished medal attached to his jacket by a greasy loop of ribbon. Conor, a schoolfriend of Eamonn’s who had recently resigned from the RUC, had come in too. He had thought the force needed more Catholics but six months in a station in south Armagh, waiting to be blown up, had tested his commitment to integration. He had developed a series of facial tics and, when Eamonn put a pint in front of him, his mouth gurned enthusiastically.

Gerry arrived, wearing his leather coat, looking around anxiously.

A man walks into a bar, said Eamonn.

He’s here to see me, said Cushla.

Eamonn let out a low whistle. Is he the boy had you out all night?

Please don’t, she said.