He drained his drink. The glass made a small, irritated bang as it hit the mahogany. When are you coming to the flat again? he said.

When are you there?

His gaze was steady. That’s a reasonable question. I’m there most of the time.

But not all the time.

Not all the time, no.

Will you be there tonight?

He shook his head, almost imperceptibly, and crushed the cigarette into the ashtray. He wrote something on a corner of the newspaper and tore it off, tucking it under his glass.

Do you want another one, big man? called Eamonn from the taps.

No. Must dash, he said, getting to his feet. He looked at Cushla as though he was going to say something but turned on his heels and left. On his way out, he stepped aside to let Gerry pass. There was a Belfast phone number written on the sliver of paper. She tucked it into her bra.

Eamonn lit a cigarette and blew a jet of smoke across the counter. You know, he said, I think that man is all right. Then he says something like ‘must dash’ and I think he’s a flute.

The film was in the final week of its run and there was no one else in the cinema. They sat in the very centre. It was cold and Cushla draped her coat over them like a blanket. I hope you’re not planning to feel me up or something, Gerry said.

You should be so lucky.

The film was beautiful, in a seedy way, although she shrieked when Jack Nicholson’s nostril was slit, which Gerry found hilarious. And she loved how Faye Dunaway carried herself, elegantly damaged, draped in those exquisite clothes.

They watched all the credits. I enjoyed that, she said, as the lights went on.

Enjoyed. Is that it?

OK, it was great. And nice to see it on a big screen. The last film I saw in a picture house was Klute.

I’ll have to drag you out more often. He kicked at the kerbstone with the toe of his boot. I don’t fancy you, you know, he said.

That’s hurtful. Like, how am I supposed to feel? said Cushla.

He burst out laughing. You’re good craic.

So are you.

They hugged and got into their cars. Cushla locked her doors. They weren’t far from where Seamie McGeown had been found slashed and battered.

When she got home, Gina was already in bed. Cushla emptied ashtrays, flicked off the lights in the sitting room. As she put her foot on the bottom stair, the phone rang.

The pause. You’re home, he said.

Yeah, Michael. I’m home.

Alone?

Gerry’s here. And half a dozen soldiers. I’ve promised them a good time. Where are you, out of interest? she said, although his voice was so low she knew he was trying not to be overheard.