It was a pile of dung left by the rag and bone man’s horse.

Do you remember World War One? said Cushla.

Jimmy chuckled, clamping his hand on Michael’s shoulder. His fingernails were long, the tips pewter with dirt. He got to his feet. Goodnight, Your Honour, he said, and ambled out the door. Sometimes Fidel and the others patted their pockets when he was leaving, checking imaginary eggs. Behind his back, they pretended to shoot themselves, as if he was boring them to suicide. Michael had listened to him.

Why does everyone think I’m a judge? he said.

Because you’re ancient and you talk lovely.

You’re merciless.

Sorry. I was going to tell you a reason why I like you but I don’t want to seem too keen.

Heaven forbid. What are you doing at the weekend?

15

15

A blast of cold air and diesel fumes propelled a boy Davy’s age along the aisle of the train. He stood proprietorially beside Cushla, holding up three fingers of his left hand and the thumb of his right. A woman dumped a nylon shopping bag on the table and sat opposite, beside the boy. Cushla shifted to the window seat to make room for a girl of five or so.

The mother took a colouring book and a bundle of crayons wrapped in an elastic band from the bag. The girl began to fill in the black outline of an Indian chief in a wide feathery headdress, making the plumes fearsome with orange, red and yellow markings. Cushla had brought things for the journey. June’s Cosmo, a Dairy Milk, a can of Coke. The boy picked up the drink and, in unison, his mother and sister hissed, Put it down.

He’s welcome to it, Cushla said. The mother smiled but pulled the boy’s hand away when he reached for it again. He went at the picture. He couldn’t stay within the lines and with every stroke his sister complained. Cushla watched him look slyly at her and lift a red crayon, curving his arm around the page to conceal what he was doing. When he revealed the finished picture, the chief’s face was scarlet.

You wrecked it! the girl said.

He’s a red Indian, said her brother. R. E. D. He’s meant to have a red bake. Big Chief Dirty Bum, his name is.

The mother shot him a deadly look. I’m warning you, she said.

The boy put his lip out. When’s Daddy getting out of jail? he said, as if his father would show clemency.

The mother glanced at Cushla and turned the page of the colouring book.