Back through the arch and a run through the traffic to cross the street. A girl in an Indian smock and man’s leather jacket, squatting on the footpath, drawing a dragon in pastel chalk. He dropped coins in her hat and led Cushla into a shop that sold pipes. They were displayed in glass-topped cabinets lined with green baize. She told him it was like a jewellery shop for ould fellas and bought him a blackthorn pipe and a tin of Mick McQuaid.

They walked up Grafton Street. Buskers were playing guitars, huddles of youths standing about watching them. Something was wrong. She looked up and down the street and didn’t know what it was until she was in the doorway of Switzers, sliding her handbag off her shoulder and holding it open. Michael laughed. You’re not in Kansas any more, he said.

There were bombs down here last year. Why’s there no security?

There just isn’t. Come on.

Inside, he passed her pairs of sunglasses he thought would suit her. She chose big Jackie Oish ones with brown-tinted lenses. She put them on and felt unlike herself, as though she was a character in a film.

He brought her to a pub down a side street. Two women at a table under a bleary window, shopping bags at their feet. A ray of sunlight striking worn wooden floorboards. Michael ordered a pint of Guinness. Cushla asked for a Coke to slake her hangover. He protested softly when she insisted on paying, watching her smooth the corners of the unfamiliar money before handing it to the barman.

I love punts, she said. The way they put a beautiful woman on the pound note. The Brits have the Queen’s head all over everything.

He lit a cigarette, watched the smoke curl up towards the ceiling. I know what we’ll do next, he said.

It’s weird how well you know Dublin. You being a good Ulster Prod and all.

A pause as he swallowed a mouthful of stout. I’m an all-Ireland sort of chap, he said.

As opposed to united Ireland.

Not necessarily. I love Ireland. I just don’t think it’s worth killing anyone over it.

He led her along streets she’d never walked before. They passed the parliament building and turned on to Nassau Street, which ran the side of Trinity College. Bouquets had been placed by a section of the railings, blooms sweating under cellophane wrapping. She told him she had seen this spot on the news a few days earlier, on the anniversary of the strike.

There were bombs in three locations, he said. Eleven people were blown to bits on the street parallel to our hotel.