“That Yank, the tourist,” Malone repeated. “What’s his name again?”
“Shawnessy,” Minogue said.
“What do you mean Shawnessy? Shock-nessy. ” Minogue eyed Malone.
“That’s how they say it over there.”
“How do you know?”
“There was a fella on Miami Vice once. A crook, a lawyer. Shawnessy, they pronounced it.”
Malone looked up from his work balancing beer mats and frowned.
“Now do you believe me?” Minogue asked.
Malone’s house of beer mats collapsed. He shrugged and swore and grabbed his glass. Stress, Minogue thought as he yawned with a sudden aching weariness, another meaningless word. The screen filled with burning buses. A lanky teenager throwing a rock froze and shrank, and was yanked back in miniature to a corner of the screen. Was that Derry, Minogue wondered.
“Jesus Christ,” said Malone. “Is that going on tonight? It fucking well better not be.”
“It’s archival footage.”
“What?”
A British army Land Rover sped over a roadway littered with stones. A petrol bomb burst against its roof.
“History, Tommy It’s old stuff.”
Someone with a scarf wrapped around his lower face was caught and frozen in place as he hoisted a petrol bomb. He too was dispatched as a fading, still shot to the bottom of the screen. The making of a great athlete, Minogue believed, that kid. Probably in his thirties or even forties by now, with kids, a few pints in the local, a half-decent house paid for by Her Majesty, the trousers getting too tight on him. The pictures slid back to reveal a dimly lit studio, where four people sat around a table.