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knocking persisted. He had never been subjected to anything quite like it and yet it wasn’t loud nor was it sharp and still it grated to such a degree that he was obliged to place a finger in either ear. Normally this would succeed in at least diminishing the sound but not in this instance for the harder he pressed his fingers into the well-waxed canals the more piercing the knocking became. Perplexed he withdrew his fingers. Reluctantly he moved towards the door. He did not open it at once. He peered through the curtains of the sitting-room window in the hope of catching a glimpse of the knocker. There was nothing to be seen.
    He climbed the stairs and entered the front bedroom. He looked down on to the street but there was nothing. Indeed, from his vantage point which afforded an unrestricted view of the entire street, there wasn’t a solitary soul to be seen. All the sounds of revelry had long since abated and nothing stirred. The roadway was still wet after a heavy shower which had fallen while Jacko slept. A blissful calm had followed. Then came another bout of the nerve-shattering knocking. Silently he opened the window and, leaning out, peered downward. There was nothing. He withdrew but no sooner had he closed the window than the knocking commenced once more. He rushed downstairs and opened the door. Standing before him was a small boy who could not have exceeded seven or eight years in age. The youngster was impeccably dressed, shining white shoes, a snow-white shirt and red vermilion necktie, a double-breasted navy blue suit and a cream-coloured felt hat which he lifted respectfully from his immaculately slicked head as soon as Jacko Mulholland opened the door. On the child’s face was an angelic smile. He was about to speak when Jacko seized him round the throat with his right thumb and index finger.
    â€˜Are you a lorgadawn or what!’ Jacko roared as he tightened the grip on the pale, slender throat so easily encircled by the powerful fingers, stronger than any in the street from constant stitching, knotting and threading. The boy wriggled in his grasp, unable to answer.
    â€˜Are you a lorgadawn!’ Jacko shouted a second time.
    All the boy could do was shake his head but even this proved difficult. The pressure from the long, thin fingers was overpowering. Coarse and calloused they cut into his neck. Then suddenly Jacko let go. The boy gingerly felt his throat where the fingers had lingered for so long.
    â€˜Who in God’s name are you?’ Jacko asked gruffly but with none of the fury which accompanied his first question.
    â€˜I’ll tell you who I am if you promise to keep calm,’ the boy replied.
    â€˜You have my promise,’ came the assurance from Jacko.
    â€˜I am your grandson,’ the boy informed him.
    â€˜My what?’ Jacko roared.
    â€˜See,’ said the boy, ‘you’re breaking your promise already. You promised you’d keep calm,’ the boy replied.
    â€˜Is this some kind of joke boy?’ Jacko asked fiercely and would have seized him again had not the visitor lifted his hand and announced solemnly that beyond any shadow of doubt he was indeed his grandson.
    â€˜But how can that be?’ Jack asked. ‘I am only thirty years of age and I was never married. In fact I was never with anyone but the one woman and I never put a hand above her knee.’
    â€˜The fact remains,’ the boy was adamant, ‘that I am your grandson John J. Mulholland.’
    â€˜I am also John J. Mulholland,’ Jacko informed him, ‘but they call me Jacko.’
    â€˜I should, of course, have said,’ the visitor was apologetic now, ‘that I will be your grandson in the course of time. Strictly speaking I am not your grandson right now. What you see before you is an unborn presence which will arrive into this world on a date yet to be decided.’
    â€˜Oh,’ said Jacko Mulholland impressed by the boy’s