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She glanced up at me with something like pity.

‘I wasn’t in a bomb scare,’ she said witheringly. ‘I was in the blast radius of a bomb. Loyalists hit a loyalist bar. Christ. I could see people screaming, and I couldn’t hear them.’

I didn’t think it would be a good move to ask if many people were hurt.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. I squeezed her hand. ‘I didn’t know.’

She stopped, throwing me off-balance. I turned, tottering, to face her. She held her balled fists in front of her as if grasping and shaking by the lapels someone much smaller than myself.

‘Christ!’ she spat. ‘I hate this shit! I hate it so much! We were just going to enjoy ourselves, we all were, and some fucking swine has to ruin it! I blame them for all of it! For the bomb scares and the false alarms and the hoaxes – they wouldn’t happen if it wasn’t for the bastards who do the real thing. Ears and feet all over the pavement!’ She closed her eyes, then opened them as if she couldn’t bear what she saw. ‘And Dave used to say we had to listen to the oppressed. Nobody listens to me because I’m not an “oppressed”. I’m a focking prodistant!’ Her voice dropped to a harsh whisper, remnant of a caution otherwise thrown to the sodium sky. ‘Fuck them all! Fuck the Pope! Fuck the Queen! Fuck Ireland!’

As suddenly as her outburst had started, it stopped. She rested her fists on my shoulders and looked up at me, dry-eyed. She sniffed.

‘God, you must think I’m crazy,’ she said. ‘You didn’t deserve that.’

I wrapped my arms around her and held her close, taking the opportunity to look around. It must have looked like we we’d been having some kind of fight. This being Glasgow, and she not having used a bottle, nobody was paying us more than the idlest flicker of attention.

‘I’d prefer that to “whatever you say, say nothing”,’ I said. ‘Especially as I agree with what you just said.’

‘You do?’ She pulled back and frowned at me. ‘You mean you don’t believe in anything?’ Her voice was incredulous, hopeful.

Myra’s taunt came back to me: Ey’m en individualist enarchist, eckchelly. No point going into it that way, with a string of isms. I believe in you, I thought of trying, but that wouldn’t do, either. She looked so desperately serious!

I swallowed. ‘No God, no country, no “society”. Just people and things, and people one by one.’

‘Just us?’

I considered it, tempted. It would be a good line to hug her closer with.

‘No us either, unless each of us chooses, and only as long as each of us chooses.’

‘I don’t know if I could live with that.’

‘Better than dying with something else.’

She gave that glib response a more welcoming smile than it deserved.

‘Well,’ she said, ‘I can see you’re not just trying to chat me up.’ She caught my hand again and shoved it, with hers, into her parka pocket. ‘Come on, see me home.’

We walked through the wet streets as if we were joined at the hip, stopping every couple of hundred metres for a clinch and a kiss. Neither of us talked very much. At her flat a faint glow and giggles came from Sheena’s small room. We had the front room, and the couch, to ourselves. We did a lot of hugging and kissing and groping and rolling, but when it became obvious that I wanted to go further she pushed me away.

‘Not ready yet,’ she said.

‘That’s all right,’ I said.

‘Maybe you should go now. Some of us have to get up in the morning.’

I thought of several smart replies to that and in the end just nodded and smiled.

‘Maybe I should. What about tomorrow?’

She stood up and pulled me to my feet.

‘Let me see…I’m going to a wedding on Saturday. I’ve got shopping to do tomorrow lunchtime. Hen night in the evening, recovering the night after. And sorting out dresses and stuff.’ She mimed a curtsy. ‘How d’you fancy coming along to the dance at the reception? Saturday evening.’

‘That sounds great! Thanks.’

She peeled a sheet of paper from a pad and scribbled on it. ‘Place, time, bus routes,’ she said, handing it to me.

‘Thanks very much. OK, I’ll see you there then.’

We found ourselves at the door.