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silence no end.
    Jacko Mulholland surveyed the glowing fire. If it held together without collapsing it should last till bedtime. Next he surveyed the whiskey bottle and was pleased to see that more than half of its contents remained. There is nothing as consoling or sustaining to the half-drunken imbiber as the presence of a whiskey bottle more full than it is empty. It is as comforting as hidden battalions are to a field commander whose forces have been decimated by a succession of foolhardy charges. It is akin to the feelings of a man who, upon waking in the morning, expects to be confronted by rain and storm but instead finds the sun shining through his window.
    Jacko Mulholland refilled his glass and swallowed copiously, gasping for breath as the amber liquid set fire to his innards. Then he began to sob as he recalled other days – his mother’s voice in the morning as she prepared breakfast, her gentle singing of the ancient songs, her lilting of dance tunes, hornpipe, jig and reel, her dulcet call from the foot of the stairs; fishing with his father and the delight when one or the other hooked a trout, sitting in the lamplight late at night watching his father tying flies. The sobbing became uncontrollable. Nobody heard for such was the extent of the celebrations in the neighbouring houses that no external sound had the power to penetrate the old stone walls. It was the same in every other house on the street save that of old Mick Moles and his daughter Mary. They sat silently at either side of the hearth. Sometimes he would call upon God to relieve his aches and other times he would call on the Blessed Virgin but if they heard they failed to bring him relief so that he rounded on his daughter before going to bed, falsely accusing her of concocting watery tea and burning his toast.
    Jacko Mulholland was now at that stage of drunkenness where the victim starts to natter to himself, grinding his teeth as he recalls all the injustices he has suffered since first entering the world. He turned his attention to the whiskey bottle and, blurred though his vision had become, he was sorry to note that more than two-thirds of its contents had been consumed. He mourned its passing with a series of deep sighs and tedious lamentations after which his head began to droop. Vainly he strove to restrain the slumber which seemed set to overpower him but he was a poor match for its stupefying subtlety. Soon he was snoring.
    There are few snores with the depth and resonance of whiskey snores. They rebounded from the walls and filled the kitchen to overflowing. The only danger to the whiskey snorer is that, more often than not, his slumber is disrupted by one of his own creations. In this instance it was another sound which infiltrated Jacko Mulholland’s malt-induced insensibility. At first he stirred irritably, grimaced and then groaned before opening bleary eyes. The first object to catch his eye was the mantelpiece clock. The hands indicated that he had slept for several hours. There was that annoying noise again. It sounded as if somebody was knocking at the front door but who could be knocking at twenty past one in the morning? He decided to ignore it.
    From time to time over the years he would be roused from his slumbers early on the mornings of religious festivals and football matches by agricultural labourers who would have specially commissioned new pairs of trousers for such occasions. He never minded, provided payment was forthcoming, but this was different. Twenty minutes past one on the morning of Christmas was downright uncivil to say the least. He decided to ignore it, certain that the knocker would become discouraged after a while. He reached out his hand for the whiskey bottle. This time he dispensed with the glass and lifted the jowl to his lips. The whiskey bubbled and gurgled as he upended the bottle. Just at that moment the knocking started again. He lowered the bottle and placed it on the table. The