He threw the chip at the window, and then felt stupid.

He was feeling sorry for himself; he knew it. And now he was letting his eyes water.

–It’s only yourself you’re worried about, Veronica told him.

–Ah—I know, said Jimmy Sr.—But poor Sharon as well.

He rubbed his eyes quickly.

–I can’t even go ou’ for a fuckin’ pint.

–It’s about time you stayed in.

–Is there annythin’ good on?

–I don’t know.

–George fuckin’ Burgess.

Then they heard the voice from upstairs.

–THIS IS JIMMY RABBITTE—ALL—OVER—IRELAND.

–Oh fuck, no, Jimmy Sr pleaded.—Not tonigh’. Please.

Jimmy Sr gave Sharon a lift to work the next morning. They didn’t say much. Jimmy Sr asked a question.

–How—?

–It wasn’t him.

–I never—

–It wasn’t him, righ’.

–Okay.—Okay.

That was it.

Jimmy Sr scooped out the teabag and flung it into a corner. His shoulders were at him. He felt shite. He wanted to go home.

It wasn’t him, she’d said.

He didn’t know. He tried it again: it wasn’t him. He believed her of course, but—If it wasn’t Burgess then who the fuck was it? She’d have to tell them. He had to know for certain that it was definitely someone else; anyone. She’d just have to fuckin’ tell them.

Or else.

He tried the tea. It was brutal.

–There’s no fuckin’ way, Jackie. You know tha’.

Jackie was sitting on the twins’ bed. Sharon was sitting on her own bed. She looked at the steam rising up off her tea, so she didn’t have to look at Jackie.

–I know, said Jackie.

It wasn’t enough, Jackie knew; not nearly. It didn’t sound as if she’d meant it enough.

–I know tha’, she said; better this time, she thought.—Jesus, the state of him. There’s no way you’d’ve—

–Don’t say it, said Sharon.—I’ll get sick, I swear.

Jackie tried to laugh. They looked at each other and then they really laughed. Sharon thought the happiness would burst out of her, through her ribs, out of her mouth.

–Can yeh imagine it! she said.

–Tha’ dirty big belly on top o’ yeh!

–Stop it!

They said nothing for a bit, and the giggling died. Sharon’s nails dug into her palms.

–i KNOW WHA’ YOU’RE THIN—KIN’, she sang.

Jackie laughed, at the floor.

–Fuck off, she said.—Are yeh tellin’?

–S’pose I’d better.

–Jesus, Sharon, come on.

–It was one o’ them Spanish sailors.

–Wha’?

–Yeh know, said Sharon.—Yeh do. In the Harp, I met him.

–Oh, now I get yeh. Jesus, Sharon.

–There was loads o’ them there, yeh know. There was a big boat, yeh know; down in the docks for two days, I think it was.

She had this bit off by heart.

–He was gorgeous, Jackie, I’m not jokin’ yeh.

–Was he? Jesus.—Yeh never mentioned him before.

–No. I didn’t want to.—Yeh know. It was only for one night.

–Yeah. Do yeh know his address?

–I don’t even know his fuckin’ name, Jackie.

Manuel was the only Spanish name she could think of.

–Jesus, said Jackie.—Go on annyway.

–Ah, I just met him. In the Harp, yeh know. His English was brutal.—Come here, he had a sword.

She’d just thought up that bit.

–I’d say he did alrigh’, said Jackie, and they roared laughing.

–That’s disgustin’, Jackie.

–Where did yis—do it? Jackie asked.

She was smiling. She was enjoying herself now.

–In his hotel. The Ormond, yeh know.

–Was he not supposed to sleep in his ship?

–No, not really. They let them ou’ for the night.

–Oh yeah.—Like Letter To Brezhnev.

–God, yeah, said Sharon.—Jesus, I never thought o’ tha’.

She was sure her nails had gone through the skin.

–Was he nice?

–Fuckin’ gorgeous. Anyway, I wouldn’t’ve done it with him if he hadn’t o’ been, sure I wouldn’t?

–No way.

–He was very dark.

She hoped to God the baby wouldn’t have red hair.

–Was he good?

–Fuckin’ brilliant. He had me nearly screamin’, I’m not jokin’ yeh.

–Oh—

–We did it in the bath as well.

–God, I’d love tha’.

–It was brilliant.

–Yeah, said Jackie.—Yeh lucky bitch yeh, Sharon. I’m goin’ to go to the Harp from now on.—Come here, did he give you his cap?

–Wha’?

–His cap. Yeh know. His uniform.

–Ah, no.

–Did he not?—Yeh know Melanie Beglin? She has two o’ them. A German an’ a Swedish.

–Does she?

–Yeah. She’s a slut, tha’ one.—Jesus, sorry, Sharon! I didn’t mean—

Sharon laughed.

–She is though, said Jackie.—I hate her. Come here, Sharon, though. Why did Mister Burgess run away?

–I don’t know!

–I know it wasn’t—because. Yeh know. But—Let’s go an’ get pissed.

–Ah—

–Go on, Sharon. Howth. A bit o’ buzz.

–Okay. Where’s me shoes?

–There, look it. I’ll get them.

–No, it’s alrigh’. Jesus, me fuckin’ back.—How’s Yvonne takin’ it?

–

–Will yeh tell her about the sailor? said Sharon.

–Okay.

–Thanks.

–I’ll be blinded by these bloody sequins, said Veronica.

–Wha’? said Jimmy Sr.

–Look it, said Veronica.—I’m still on Linda’s one.

She held up the dress.

–It looks like I’ve only started.

–That’s shockin’, said Jimmy Sr.—Why couldn’t they just play basketball or somethin’? It looks very nice though, Veronica.

–Mm.

Jimmy Sr wriggled around on the couch. It was past his going out time.

–D’yeh know wha’, Veronica? I’m nearly afraid to go down to the pub—because of—

–Oh, shut up.

–Do you believe her, Veronica?

–Shut up.

There was a bunch of kids, boys Darren’s age, sitting on the wall at the bus-stop when Sharon got off. They all stared at her as she went past them. When she’d gone about three gates one of them shouted.

–How’s Mister Burgess?

She didn’t turn or stop.

–Yeh ride yeh.

She kept walking.

They were only kids.

Still, she was shaking and kind of upset when she got home and upstairs. She didn’t know why really. Men and boys had been shouting things after her since she was thirteen and fourteen. She’d never liked it much, especially when she was very young, but she’d looked on it as a sort of a stupid compliment.

Tonight was different though. Being called a ride wasn’t any sort of a compliment anymore.

–What’re YOU fuckin’ lookin’ at? Jimmy Sr asked Paddy.

He was serious.

–Nothin’.

–D’yeh think I have fuckin’ cancer or somethin’?

–No!

–Ah lads, now, said Bimbo.—There’s no need for tha’ sort o’ shite.

–I didn’t do annythin’, Paddy insisted.

–You were starin’ at me, said Jimmy Sr.—Annyway, he said out of nowhere. (They’d been talking about Stephen Roche.)—It wasn’t Burgess. It was a Spanish sailor.

–She thinks he was Spanish annyway, Jackie told Mary.—Where? said Mary.—The Harp.

–Oh, yeah.—D’you believe her?

–Yeah. It couldn’t have been—

–No.

–Will Yvonne believe it, d’yeh think? Jackie asked.

–Emm—she might.

–She won’t, sure she won’t?

–No.—She might though.

Two nights after Sharon told Jackie about the Spanish sailor George Burgess was waiting for her outside work.