“Why aren’t you interested in Paddy Meehan anymore? I thought you were going to try and interview him.”

“Ye grow out of things, though, ye know?” she said uncomfortably. “I don’t care about that anymore.”

“Please yourself.” He pulled off one of Paddy’s woolly red gloves, tucking it into her duffel coat pocket, and slid his hot hand around her bare skin, making the peace. “I thought you’d be interested to meet him, after knowing so much about the whole story and following it for so long.”

“He’s just a fat old man now.” She tutted and looked away. “He drinks in the town. All the wasters at work know him. I can’t be annoyed with it.”

“Well, well, well,” Sean said, squeezing her hand playfully. “Don’t get shirty with me about it.”

They smiled at the silly turn of phrase and stood pressing their shoulders together, looking at the crowd but thinking about each other. Paddy’s breath felt warmer when Sean was with her. She felt thinner and taller and funny suddenly because he loved her and they were promised to each other.

The undertakers were bringing the coffin out of the house. A respectful hush descended on the mourners. Those having conversations too urgent to abandon lowered their voices. The chief undertaker took his place at the head of the procession and the hearse began its glide down the quiet street, gathering the crowd in its wake. They formed in the natural order of family, then friends, followed by neighbors and pals from chapel, until a hundred and fifty people were behind the car. Sean’s mother and brothers were up front, but he held back, squeezing Paddy’s hand tight. She saw him blinking hard, and the tip of his nose darkened as he struggled for breath. At eighteen, Sean was as tall as a man and his voice was deep, but sometimes under all the bluster she saw the sweet boy she met at school, before his growth spurt made him six foot one, before working for Shug gave him those shoulders.

The hearse took a right, turning into the Main Street, and the line of mourners braced themselves, standing taller, pulling the small children into the center. The chat got louder, as if they were trying to swell the numbers. It was a tense time for a Catholic procession: Pastor Jack Glass was giving speeches all over the city about the whore of Rome, and the troubles over in Ireland were ferocious. A Republican woman MP had been shot in her home in front of her child, and prisoners in the Maze were starting a second hunger strike to demand political status. A demonstration in support of the men had been organized, and everyone knew there was going to be trouble. Whenever feelings ran high in the six counties, Glasgow teetered on the edge of the violence. As the nearest foreign city to Belfast, just over a hundred miles away across the Irish Sea, Glasgow was the traditional place of exile for Unionists who had lost their position but were too contentious to kill off. They drank in Dennistoun pubs and held raffles for the cause back home. Rogue Republicans got the better deal and were exiled to America.

The procession made its way down one side of the Main Street, and the cars on the other side slowed to show their respect. A couple of drivers sped up, crossing back and forth between the lanes. One man drove past hanging out of his window, shouting belligerent abuse about the Pope. Protestant pedestrians watched in silence from the pavement, some waving to friends who were walking, some uncomfortable or mocking because they didn’t understand the custom.

The hearse stopped in front of St. Columbkill’s modern yellow-brick chapel, and Annie’s coffin was carried carefully across the low-walled courtyard, up the stairs, and through the huge yellow-timbered doors. They were committing her to the safety of the chapel for the night, to guard against the devil stealing her soul before the funeral mass and burial in the morning. Paddy spotted a crowd of four girls she had been at primary school with, standing on the steps, hands clasped piously in front, eyes cast down respectfully. Her two brothers, Marty and Gerald, were queuing behind them. Behind them again she saw an old neighbor who was in her Granny Meehan’s knitting bee.

“For Godsake, this is like a bloody dream sequence,” she said quietly. “Everyone I’ve ever known is here.”

Sean nodded. “Yeah, it’s nice.” He took a breath and pulled himself up tall. “Wherever we go in this life, we’ll always belong here.” He squeezed her hand. “These are our people.”

She knew he was right, that there was no escape. If she traveled a thousand miles and never came back, if she sold their gold, she would still belong to them. Sean tugged her hand gently, leading her up the stairs to the Office for the Dead.

It was afternoon and the date was December the fourth, that much Paddy Meehan did know. He couldn’t be certain where he was in the world, hadn’t been told where they were flying to, but he had seen the date on a German-language newspaper folded under the arm of a man climbing up the embarkation steps in front of them. Rolf had seen him looking at it and shifted to the side, blocking his view but doing it playfully, smiling back at him.

The plane was busy. Forty boys of all ages in red-and-beige uniforms played a call-and-answer game in Russian across the seats. Rolf stopped at a row of three seats, checking the numbers several times against their ticket before stepping back to let them in. Meehan shrugged out of his stiff gray overcoat, hurrying to get the window seat, but the young lieutenant shouldered him out of the way and ducked in, laughing as he took the seat for himself. Even the upholstery was luxurious. Meehan and the lieutenant put their hands on the back of the seat in front, working their fingernails into the thick blue-and-orange pile, giggling at the delicious depth of it. They were all excited to be on an airplane. Rolf smiled at their games as he carefully folded his coat and placed it on the rack above his head. He sat down in the aisle seat, straightening his hair, his jacket, his small moustache.

The deafening engines revved up to a whine and they taxied to the runway, finally taking off, prompting squeals and cheers of the children.

Once they were in the air and the plane had righted itself from an anxious upward angle, Rolf took a hip flask and three red plastic tumblers from his briefcase. The flask was much dented and loved, an oval curve of peeling silver plate with the brass showing underneath. He poured a stiff, stiff vodka into each tumbler and handed them down the line, first to the lieutenant, then to Meehan, and finally one for himself. Meehan handed around cigarettes as his contribution to the party and they all lit up, flicking open the little ashtrays in the arms, letting the sweet smell of a hundred smoky journeys waft out into the cabin.

“Up yours,” said Meehan jovially, lifting his tumbler in a toast.

Rolf and the lieutenant raised their drinks in response and echoed “Up yours” innocently, as if they didn’t understand. The three men smiled and drank together.

“So, pals, where are we going to now?” asked Meehan.

Rolf frowned at him. “To Scotland Yard with you, my friend.”

The young lieutenant laughed, slapping his thigh for emphasis. He was still excited.

“We’re going to Russia, eh?” said Meehan. “The kids are all chatting away in Russkie. You’re taking me to Russia.”

Rolf raised an eyebrow and shifted in his seat, reaching down, as he often did, to pull the cheeks of his arse apart. It was an odd habit for such a well-groomed man. Meehan wondered if he had hemorrhoids.

“Yes,” said Rolf, “perhaps we will go to Russia. After we have been to Scotland Yard.”