“They’re fucking swamping us!”

“It’s the thin end of a wedge.”

“They’re stealing our jobs!”

The rain began. I tilted my head back and let it spatter on my face for a moment or two.

I turned to face the woman.

“What’s your name, love?” I asked her.

“Ambreena,” she said.

“What do you do?”

“I am a student at the university.”

“Which university?”

“The University of Ulster. I am studying business administration.”

“Very good. Who else is in the house? Do you have any kids? A husband?”

“A boy. My husband is in Uganda.”

“Do you have any relatives nearby?”

“They are all in Uganda.”

She looked at the mob. “What must I do? Must I go?”

“No. Go back inside, close the door. I’ll get rid of these hoodlums, and if you have any more trouble you come see me. I’m a police officer. I live at number 113.”

She nodded.

Her eyes were hooded and dark and very beautiful. Old eyes that had seen much, but she herself was very young. Perhaps twenty-one.

She reached into the bag, fumbled for her purse, took three twenty-pound notes and offered them to me.

“That won’t be necessary. Now go inside, close the door, and if you’ve any trouble, come see me. Or call me. 62670. Okay?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have a phone?”

“Yes.”

“Go on, then. Get inside.”

She closed the door.

There was that smell in the wet street. That oh-so-familiar perfume of gasoline and tobacco and booze and fear.

Curtains twitched, lights went on, but whatever happened nobody, absolutely nobody, would hear or see anything, even if someone accidentally killed a copper. Check that. Especially if someone accidentally killed a copper.

Silence, save for a distant army helicopter somewhere over the black lough.

I looked at Bobby Cameron. Our eyes met above the bandana.

“Stand aside, peeler,” someone said.

Raindrops pattered in the oily potholes.

Fragile lines of phosphorous flitted between clouds as the moon appeared over the terrace on Victoria Road.

Bobby smiled under the mask. “They have to leave, Duffy,” he said. “We’ve discussed it.”

“It’s only one woman and her kid.”

“One or a thousand. It doesn’t matter. It’s the start of it.”

“They’re taking our jobs!” someone yelled. It was Davey Dummigan from up the road, his Ards accent unmistakable.

“She’s not taking your jobs, Davey. ICI moved its factory to South-east Asia cos there are no unions and the labour’s cheap. It’s got nothing to do with her.”

“You didn’t hear us, Duffy. We brought you in as a courtesy. One way or another they’re leaving tonight,” someone else said.

I stared at the men.

They stared at me.

In the distance I could hear sirens upon sirens.

This was absurd. I reached into the front of my jeans and pulled out the .38.

Is this what you want, Bobby? Do you really want us to all to leap together into the great glittering Omega? For her? For the thin end of a wedge?

“You’re not the law, my lads, I’m the fucking law,” I growled.

I didn’t point the gun at them but I let everyone see that I had it in my hand.

Half a dozen of the men backed away, afeared of the wild-haired, maverick cop who had already topped five people on this very street.

Bobby was completely unfazed.

“I can come back with a bigger gun than that,” he said, and some of the men laughed. Of that I had no doubt, there were probably AKs in his garden shed.

“I’m the law, my brave boys, and you’ll have to go through me. But why would you want to? She’s the only adult in the house. She’s a student. She’s studying business administration. She’s studying business. She’s come here to create jobs, not fucking steal them,” I said.

A ripple went through the men.

“What did you say she was studying?” Bobby asked.

“Business administration at the University of Ulster,” I said.

“Is she a fenian?” someone shouted.

“There’s no fenians out there, they’re all fucking heathens. They fucking put priests in the pot,” someone else said, and there was more laughter.

Bobby, no dummy, seized the moment. “Well, as long as she doesn’t try and cook anybody on this street, the stink’s bad enough when Rhonda Moore makes lasagne,” he said.

More laughter. “I’ve got a missionary joke, if you want to hear it,” Eddie Shaw said.

“Go ahead, Eddie,” I said, and I put the gun back in my trouser band.

“Very religious Free Presbyterian missionary goes to Africa, catches a disease and is flown to a hospital staffed with nuns. They put a mask over his mouth and move him to the isolation ward. ‘Nurse,’ he mumbles from behind the mask, ‘are my testicles black?’ Embarrassed, the young nurse replies, ‘I don’t know, I’m only here to wash your face and hands.’ The Head Sister is passing and sees the man getting distraught so she marches over to inquire what the problem is. ‘Nurse, please,’ he mumbles, ‘Are my testicles black?’ The Head Sister whips back the bedclothes, pulls down his pyjama trousers, moves his dick, has a right good look, shows the other two nurses, pulls up the pyjamas, replaces the bedclothes and announces, ‘Nothing wrong with your testicles, sir!’ At this the missionary pulls off his mask and says, ‘I said, are my test results back?!’ ”

Roars of laughter. Even Bobby Cameron. And just like that it was over. Most of the men took off their balaclavas as they walked home. Bobby grinned at me and I got the feeling that this was what he’d been hoping for the whole time. Shattered, I went back to the house, grabbed a can of Bass from the fridge and plonked myself down in front of the telly.

Bass after Bass while Alex “The Hurricane” Higgins tore up the snooker table. A lynch mob. What next?

The phone rang. I looked at the living room clock: 12.29. I had a strict rule. Never get the phone after midnight. It was never good news. Never. It rang thirteen times and then stopped and then began ringing again.

“Shit!”

I stomped down the hall. “What now, for heaven’s sake?”

“Duffy, meet me at Carrick Marina, ten minutes,” Chief Inspector Brennan said.

“Come on, sir, it’s after twelve!” I said.

“Stop your whining and get your arse down here, pronto!”

I went outside to the Beemer, checked underneath for bombs, and drove down Coronation Road to the harbour. I parked in the harbour car park. Everything was dark except for the lights on a Polish coal boat which was leaking diesel into the water. I walked along the south pier until I came to the Marina, which consisted of a couple of dozen yachts and small fishing smacks tied against a wooden pontoon.

“Over here, Duffy!” Inspector Brennan said.

I walked along the pontoon to a messy thirty-two-foot ketch, all wood, probably pre-war. Jesus, was he living here now? “Come here!” Brennan said.

I climbed aboard.

“Should I salute the quarter deck or something?” I said.

“Can I get you a drink?”

“Yeah.”

He handed me a glass of whiskey.

“Come down below.”

We sat at the chart table. The place smelled bad. Clothes everywhere. A sleeping bag on one of the bunks.

“Standing offer, sir. If you’re looking for somewhere to stay for a while, I have two spare bedrooms and—”

His face went red. His fist clenched. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“If you and Mrs Brennan are having any sort of—”

“I’ll thank you not to mention my wife’s name, if you don’t mind, Inspector Duffy!”

I nodded

“And for your information, I am fine. Everything’s normal. Sometimes I choose to sleep out here. I go fishing early. I don’t know what gossip you’ve been listening to down at the station but it’s all fucking lies.”

“Yes, sir.”

“A man’s allowed to go fishing, isn’t he?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I mean, I have your bloody permission, don’t I?”