Keogh took his tea to a table by the door, sat down, and lit a cigarette. Five minutes later, Kathleen Ryan emerged wearing a beret and an old trenchcoat. She went out without looking at him. Keogh sipped some more tea, then got up and left.

IT WAS RAINING harder now as she turned on to the waterfront and she increased her pace, head down. The three youths standing in the doorway of a disused warehouse saw her coming as she passed under the light of a street lamp. They were of a type to be found in any city in the world. Vicious young animals in bomber jackets and jeans.

“That’s her, Pat,” the one wearing a baseball cap said. “That’s her. The Ryan bitch from the cafe.”

“I can tell for myself, you fool,” the one called Pat said. “Now hold still and grab her on the way past.”

KATHLEEN RYAN WAS totally unaware of their existence as they stayed back in the shadows. It was only the quick rush of feet that alerted her and by then it was too late, one arm around her neck half choking her.

Pat walked round in front and tilted her chin. “Well, now, what have we got here? A little Prod bitch. Ryan, isn’t it?”

She kicked back catching the youth in the baseball cap on the shin. “Leave me be, you Taig bastard.”

“Taig bastard is it,” Pat said. “And us decent Catholic boys!” He slapped her face. “Up the alley with her. Time she learned her manners.”

She didn’t scream, for it was not in her nature, but cried out in rage and bit the hand that fastened on her mouth.

“Bitch!” Baseball Cap called out and punched her in the back, and then they ran her along the alley through the rain. There was a stack of packing cases clear under an old-fashioned gas street lamp. As she struggled, two of them pulled her across a packing case and Pat moved up behind and racked her skirt up.

“Time you learned,” he said.

“No, time you learned!” a voice called. Pat turned and Martin Keogh walked up the alley, hands in the pockets of his reefer. “Put her down. I mean, she doesn’t know where you’ve been, does she?”

“Stuff you, wee man,” the one in the baseball cap said, released his hold on the girl, and swung a punch at Keogh, who caught the wrist, twisted, and ran him face first into the wall.

“You bastard!” the third youth cried and rushed him.

Keogh’s left hand came out of his pocket holding the Walther and he slashed the youth across the face, splitting the cheek from the left eye to the corner of the mouth. He raised the gun and fired, the distinctive muted cough of the silenced weapon flat in the rain.

Baseball Cap was on his knees, the other clutching his cheek, blood pouring through his fingers. Pat stood there, rage on his face.

“You bloody swine!”

“It’s been said before.” Keogh touched him between the eyes with the silenced end of the Walther. “Not another word or I’ll kill you.”

The youth froze. Kathleen Ryan was pulling her skirt down. Keogh said, “Back to that cafe of yours, girl. I’ll see you soon.”

She hesitated, staring at him, then turned and ran away along the alley.

THERE WAS ONLY the rain now and the groans of the injured. Pat said wildly, “We did what you told us to do. Why this?”

“Oh, no,” Keogh said. “I told you to frighten the girl a little and then I’d come and save her.” He found a cigarette one-handed and lit it. “And what were we into? Gang rape.”

“She’s a dirty little Prod. Who cares?”

“I do,” Keogh told him. “And I’m a Catholic. You give us a bad name.”

Pat rushed him. Keogh swayed to one side, tripping him with his right foot, and dropped one knee down hard in his back. Pat lay there sobbing in the rain.

Keogh said, “You need a lesson, son.”

He jammed the muzzle of the Walther against the youth’s thigh and pulled the trigger. There was a muted report and Pat cried out.

Keogh stood up. “Only a flesh wound. It could have been your kneecap.”

Pat was sobbing now. “Damn you!”

“Taken care of a long time ago.” Keogh took an envelope from his pocket and dropped it down. “Five hundred quid, that was the price. Now get yourself to the Royal Victoria Casualty Department. Best in the world for gunshot wounds, but then they get a lot of experience.”

He walked away, whistling the same eerie little tune, and left them there in the rain.

WHEN HE REACHED the cafe, there were no longer any customers, but he could see Kathleen Ryan and the woman Mary standing behind the counter. The girl was on the telephone. Keogh tried the door, but it was locked. Kathleen Ryan turned as the door rattled and nodded to Mary, who came from behind the counter and unlocked it.

As Keogh entered, Mary said, “She told me what you did for her. God bless you.”

Keogh sat on the edge of a table and lit a cigarette. The girl was still talking. “No, I’ll be fine now. I’ll be at the Drum in twenty minutes. Don’t fret.” She put the phone down and turned, her face calm. “My uncle Michael. He worries about me.”

“And why not?” Keogh said. “Desperate times.”

“You don’t take prisoners, do you?”

“I could never see the point.”

“And you’re carrying. A Walther from what I saw.”

“Very knowledgeable for one so young.”

“Oh, I know guns, mister, I was raised on them. What did you do after I left?”

“I sent them on their way.”

“Home was it with a pat on the head?”

“No, the nearest casualty department. They needed a lesson. They got one. The one who seemed to be in charge will be on sticks for a while if that’s a comfort to you.”

She frowned, her eyes dark. “What’s your game?”

“No game. I didn’t like what was going on, that’s all.” He stood up and stubbed out his cigarette. “Still, you seem fine now so I’ll be on my way.”

He got the door open. She said quickly, “No, hang on.” He turned and she added, “You can walk me to my uncle’s pub. That’s the Orange Drum on Connor’s Wharf. It’s about a quarter of a mile. My name is Kathleen Ryan. What’s yours?”

“Martin Keogh.”

“Wait for me outside.”

He did as he was told and saw her go to the phone again. Probably speaking to her uncle, he thought. A few moments later, she joined him, this time carrying a large umbrella.

As she put it up against the driving rain, he said, “And wouldn’t a taxi be safer?”

“I like the city at night,” she told him. “I like the rain. I’ve a right to go my own way and to hell with those Fenian bastards.”

“A point of view,” he replied as they started to walk.

“Here, get under this,” she said, pulling him under the umbrella and took his arm. “A sailor, you said?”

“Just for the past couple of years.”

“A sailor from Belfast raised in London who carries a Walther.”

There was a question in her voice. “A dangerous place this old town as you saw tonight.”

“Dangerous for you, you mean, and that’s why you’re carrying.” She frowned. “You’re not a Fenian or you wouldn’t have done what you did to that lot.”

“I’m not anybody’s, girl dear.” He paused to light a cigarette.

She said, “Give me one.”

“I will not, you with your green years ahead of you. God, but you’re one for the questions, Kate.”

She turned to glance at him. “Why do you call me that? No one else does.”

“Oh, it seems to suit.”

They were walking along the waterfront now, container ships anchored at the quay and further out, the red and green lights of a freighter moving out to sea.

Kathleen Ryan said, “So, the gun? Why are you carrying?”

“Jesus, it’s the persistent one you are. A long time ago I was a soldier. Did three tours of duty in this very town, and there’s always the chance of someone with a long memory and a grudge to work off.”

“What regiment?”

“One Para.”

“Don’t tell me you were at Bloody Sunday in Londonderry?”