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a cap low over his face, elbowing his way through the crowd behind them. Not until the boy heard his name called out.
    He turned. ‘Yes?’
    The youth thrust a heavy brown-paper bag into the boy’s hand. ‘I was told to give you this,’ he said. ‘For you and your sister. And to tell you, ‘
Watch the
numbers!
’
    ‘Excuse me!’ his aunt called out.
    But he was already moving away, quickly and furtively.
    ‘Excuse me!’ she called out louder. ‘Young man, who sent you?’
    ‘A friend!’ he replied. Then within seconds, like a sinking stone, he was swallowed by the crowd and vanished.
    ‘Aunt Oonagh, who was that boy?’ his sister, engulfed in a duffel coat too big for her and wearing a bobble hat, asked.
    ‘Let me see that,’ their aunt said, snatching the bag from the boy’s hand, surprised at how heavy it was. She peered inside it, and frowned. It contained a small black
revolver, a broken pocket watch and a folded page from a newspaper.
    She removed the paper and opened it carefully. It was the front page of an old copy of the
Daily News
. The headline was the murder of Brendan Daly’s wife, and the abduction and
disappearance of Brendan Daly, chief contender for the role of boss of the White Hand Gang. The children’s parents.
    There was a photograph of Daly. A big, handsome, angry-looking guy with a shock of shiny black hair, slicked back, wearing a three-piece suit, with a draped pocket watch chain, a rumpled white
shirt and a plain tie, beneath a greatcoat.
    Scribbled down the margin in blue ink were four names and twelve numbers.
    ‘What does it say?’ his sister asked.
    His aunt showed it to her, then turned it over. The boy looked too. He couldn’t read what the newspaper said, and he struggled with the names, but he could read the twelve numbers.
    9 5 3 7 0 4 0 4 2 4 0 4, the boy read out, slowly. ‘What do they mean?’ he asked.
    ‘You tell me!’ his aunt said, handing it to him. ‘They were given to you. You tell me.’
    It was something important, he knew. It had to be. But he had no idea what.
    ‘Are they the names of the bad men who took Pa?’ his sister said.
    His aunt said nothing.
    The boy folded the piece of paper and tucked it carefully into his inside pocket. Then he looked at the gun that his aunt had lifted from the bag and was holding nervously, as if scared it was
about to sting or bite her. ‘I should get rid of this,’ she said. ‘It’s a bad thing to have a gun.’ She turned, and started weaving through the crowd towards the edge
of the quay. But as she was about to throw it into the water, the boy grabbed her arm.
    ‘No!’ he said. ‘It may be Pa’s! He might want it back! He might come for it, he might!’ He burst into tears.
    She looked down at him and her expression softened. ‘All right, we’ll keep it for the voyage. Just in case your pa’s waiting for us at the other end.’
    He nodded eagerly, wiping away his tears with the back of his right hand.
    His aunt put the gun into her purse, then removed the watch. It was a man’s gold-case pocket watch, on a chain, with a moon-phase on the dial. The crystal was cracked and the crown
slightly buckled. The moon hands were stopped at five minutes past four. He snatched it from her hand and stared at it. ‘Pa’s watch,’ he said. ‘It’s
Pa’s.’
    There was a long, loud, single blast of the ship’s horn. That and the five gunshots in the night and the screams of his mother were the sounds by which the boy would, for the rest of his
life, remember New York.
    Together with the image of the watch.

16
    2012
    In the hushed warm air of the Intensive Care Unit of the Royal Sussex County Hospital, the old man, tired from his flight back from the South of France, sat beside the
unconscious woman, holding her frail, veined and liver-spotted hand. Somewhere near he heard the swish of a curtain being pulled.
    ‘Aileen, I’m here, can you hear me?’
    He felt a faint squeeze back. Her silver hair,