*Welcome to paradise,' I said and we both laughed.

We were still laughing two hundred yards further on when we came to the pub.

I'd done my research. There was one pub on the island. Jack McGettigan's. He'd run it for thirty years. It was just a pub. He didn't serve lunch. He didn't have discos. There wasn't even a dart board. He served pints and shorts and that was it, and that was all you needed. It was certainly all I needed. I'd idly fantasised about doing my thousand words in the morning in my lonely garret, contented wife and playful child notwithstanding, then sauntering down to the pub for a few drinks, then meandering home for a few hundred more words, a cuddle with the wife and a tickle with the child, then spending the evening talking it up with the locals and old Jack himself over a few more pints; maybe even sticking my head out the door every once in a while to see if there were any miracles taking place up on the hill.

I stopped the car.

*What's wrong?' Patricia asked.

Suddenly I felt drained. Like Dracula had sucked me dry. *The pub,' I said.

Patricia nodded. *What of it?'

*It's closed.'

*It's early yet.'

I shook my head and opened the door. *No, I mean, it's closed.' I stood in the road. *It's boarded up. It's closed. Closed down. Look at it, Patricia.'

She looked at it.

*The f.u.c.king pub is closed.'

*So it is.'

*Did you know this?'

*Jesus, Dan, how would I know it?'

I left the door open and stepped up to the door. I pulled at it, but it was well secured. The windows too were boarded. *Jesus,' I said.

The two young fellas who'd secured the Fitzpatrick appeared behind the car. One had a Royal Mail bag slung over his shoulder. There didn't appear to be much in it. He wore an Aran jumper and had curly hair which owed nothing to a hairdresser.

*What happened to the pub?' I asked.

*Shut,' he said.

*For good?'

*Aye.'

*Did Old Jack die?'

*Nah, he's around yet.'

They walked on. I got back in the car. *f.u.c.k it,' I said, and slapped the wheel. *Is it too late to go home?'

Patricia snorted.

*This isn't funny. I didn't even bring a f.u.c.king carry-out.'

She squeezed my leg. *Oh dear,' she said, without a trace of sympathy.

*Imagine closing a pub. Who ever heard of it? I mean, what do the people do?'

*Dan, they make their own. That's what they do in places like this. Poteen.'

*b.u.g.g.e.r poteen. I want my Harp.'

*Dan, there's a boat in a couple of days. Go back and get some supplies then if you're that desperate.'

*That's a year and a day away, for G.o.d's sake. What am I supposed to do till then?'

*Suffer.'

*Thanks.'

I'd once tried to make poteen as a youth. It involved boiling a lot of potatoes and fermenting the residue. I didn't manage to create anything even vaguely alcoholic, though I did get a nice stew out of it.

I sat silent behind the wheel for a moment and tried to think things through. It wasn't that the beer was so important to me: knowing it was there and available would in reality have been sufficient; I didn't have to have it; but knowing that it wasn't there and it was a sea journey away, that was the killer. A real b.l.o.o.d.y killer. I slapped the wheel again.

*There's beer on this island somewhere,' I said. *There must be.'

*Forget the beer for a moment, love,' Patricia said. *It's time for milk.' She nodded down at Little Stevie. He started to cry. They had plainly rehea.r.s.ed it.

Then it was Patricia's turn to grin.

We followed a winding road out along the coast for about a mile, then when we came to a lighthouse we turned inland. Another half-mile further on we came to Snow Cottage. Home.

There was a bath lying on its side in the front garden. It was half filled with murky water. The cottage walls had once been whitewashed but were now damp and dark. The garden was wildly overgrown.

*I don't like this,' Patricia said simply.

*Now don't jump to conclusions. It's probably a little palace inside.'

*Aye,' she said.

*You know,' I said, *you can be very sarcastic when you try.'

*That wasn't even trying,' she spat, *and if this place is a hole you're a dead man.'

Of course it wasn't a hole. It just wasn't a palace.

The key was being kept warm under the doormat by a couple of thousand woodlice. I didn't mention them to Patricia, they were probably just visiting. I stepped aside and made calming noises as she entered, Stevie in her arms, and began to storm from room to room, tutting. There was a fairly new bathroom suite, but the last bather had left a couple of layers of skin in it. There were dirty pans in the kitchen sink. A half-eaten bowl of Frosties sat on the kitchen table, the milk thick and stenchy.

*It's like the f.u.c.king Mary Celeste,' said Patricia.

I nodded. *Could be worse,' I said.

*How, Dan?' she demanded.

*There could be pigs in the parlour.'

*There have been pigs in this f.u.c.king kitchen, Dan. What am I supposed to do with this . . .?' Her eyes darted suddenly with renewed intensity about the kitchen. *Where's the microwave?'

*What microwave?'

*Dan, the microwave?'

*What microwave? Plainly, I would say from the evidence before you, there is no microwave.'

*But how am I supposed to cook?'

*With the cooker. Look. There. That thing in the corner. That's the cooker. It's plugged in. That's what real people cook on.'

*But . . . but . . .'

*Trish, it isn't difficult.'

*But I always use a microwave. I brought microwave meals.'

*Trish, they probably don't have microwaves here. They probably don't even have demi-waves.'

*I don't like this place, Dan. It smells.'

*It just needs to be cleaned up a bit, love.'

*Aye. And who's going to do that?'

*We'll both do it.'

*It's no place for a baby.'

*It'll be all right, love. It'll just take us a while to find our feet. Then we'll be laughing. Honestly.'

The bedroom was nice. A double bed. Made. No cot.

Patricia noticed first. She tutted. *You promised.'

*The Cardinal promised.'

*The Cardinal seems to have promised a lot. Just get on the b.l.o.o.d.y phone to him, Dan, and tell him what sort of a state this place is in. It's a disgrace.'

She looked miserable. I pulled at my lower lip. *I hate to point this out, Trish . . .'

Her eyes narrowed. *What?'

*This business about phoning the Cardinal.'

*Yes?'

*It would really require a phone.'

*Dan . . .'

*I'm sorry, but I told you it was an isolated cottage, there's no . . .'

*But how am I supposed to phone . . .?' She stopped. Bit it back. Silence hung in the air, hung on the dust.

*Tony?' I suggested.

*Dad, Dan. Dad. That's not fair. He'll be worried if I don't call.'

*So send him a pigeon.' It came out a little harsher than I intended. She looked hurt. I shrugged. *I'm sorry.'

*You spend your whole life apologising to me.'

*I know. I'm sorry.'

The tears started to run down her cheeks. *I want to go home,' she cried.

I went to her. The three of us nestled together. *It'll be okay,' I said, without a great deal of confidence.

Little Stevie went to sleep on our double bed.

We decided to clean the inside of the house before unpacking our belongings. There were cleaning materials under the sink. Once we got stuck in it didn't take long to get the kitchen, then the bathroom, into shape. Then we took a break. We looked in on Stevie; he slept soundly. We brought some of our supplies in from the car. Trish made a cup of tea. I had a can of Diet Pepsi. It was warm, but it was still Diet Pepsi.

*It's not so bad, is it, love?'

*Mmmmm,' she said. Her eyes glazed over for a moment and she looked like she was drawing up a mental list of the things that were so bad. The noise of a car engine snapped her out of it. We peered out of the window. A Land-Rover was just pulling into the driveway. When it stopped a tall man in a pair of mud-spattered blue dungarees got out. He went round to the back of the vehicle, reached inside and pulled out a cot.

*Brilliant!' Patricia exclaimed and made for the door.

7.

*I'm very sorry,' the big man said, *I didn't think youse were coming until next week. I got the shock of my life when they told me in the shop you'd arrived.'

He held the cot in two ma.s.sive arms. I went to help him, but he shook his head. *Duncan Cairns,' he said, wiggling a couple of fingers round the base of the cot. *I'm the school-teacher. I should have gotten this place ready ages ago . . . but you know how it is.'

*Never worry,' Patricia said, reaching out and tweaking his little finger. *It's good of you to bring it.'