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with a heavy suitcase, stopped beside them. He slid his case between the backs of the seats, took off his overcoat and sat down. Michael knew that there would be no talk from Owen for as long as the man sat there. The boy was wary like an animal. Michael remembered when he came to the Home how he had flinched away if anyone near him made a quick movement. A scratch of the head and the boy would duck. Owen did not look at the man but Michael could see that he was annoyed. The boy stared out of the window and put his sneakers up on his seat, scuffing them about. His brow creased. Michael had never seen so many wrinkles in a child of his age.
    The man sat puffing slightly. He was corpulent and when he stretched out his legs they saw he wore old-fashioned boots. The train shuddered and moved off from the darkness of the station into the brightness of the town. Roofs, back gardens, a queue of traffic, familiar shops with unknown names, a football field with one man in a blue track-suit, running. The fat man pulled out a packet of cigarettes and Michael saw Owen’s eyes swivel to the side. The man lit one and inhaled. He coughed, turning red.
    The train began to gather speed and Owen’s fingers tapped in rhythm. The pale blue smoke drifted towards him and he wrinkled his nose. Then his hand dived into his pocket and he pulled out a sugar lump and tossed it into his mouth. It cracked and crunched as he chewed it with open mouth. The fat man looked down sideways at him. Owen brought out another two lumps and put them in his mouth, making the same noise.
    The fat man leaned forward to Michael and said, nodding at the boy, ‘We used to have a horse like that.’
    Michael smiled at the man’s joke.
    â€˜Did you remember to bring your tablets?’
    The boy nodded.
    â€˜Take one now then.’
    Owen took a tablet and a sugar lump and crunched them together, swilling them down with another Coke.
    The fat man leaned across to Michael again and asked the way to the bar. Michael pointed. The man heaved himself to his feet, stubbing a large cigarette end into the armrest ash tray and lumbered off up the train. Owen got up.
    â€˜Where are you going?’ asked Michael.
    â€˜The john.’
    â€˜How many sugar lumps did you nick?’
    The boy just smiled over his shoulder. As the boy moved past Michael he heard the click of the ash tray closing. He looked out the window. They were moving into the countryside again. The fields were huge compared with Ireland. And there were fewer trees.
    Suddenly he got up and looked in the ash tray. It was empty. He walked quickly down the train after Owen and just saw him disappearing into the toilet. He knocked on the door but there was no answer.
    â€˜Owen. It’s me. Owen.’ He knocked again louder. ‘Owen.’ The bolt slid back to vacant and the door opened. Michael stepped inside and snibbed the door. Owen with the last of the man’s bent cigarette-end between finger and thumb, cupping it in his hand, inhaled then flicked it into the toilet bowl.
    â€˜I’m mad at you, Owen. You know . . . ’
    â€˜But, Brother . . . ’
    â€˜Less of the Brother business. It’s Dad. How can I let you smoke? What father would let his child smoke at the age of twelve? In public? Can you not wait for a fag until you get somewhere safe? Jesus, Owen, would you blow the whole thing for the puff of a fag? You’re extremely selfish.’
    The boy stood mute and resentful, his underlip curled. He shrugged. Michael regretted saying what he had said. How could the boy help but be selfish? His selfishness was something he would have to learn to live with. Michael felt the fault was in him for applying his values to the boy. He had no right to.
    â€˜Hands above your head,’ he said. He tapped his hands down the boy’s pockets and took out a box of matches. ‘Where did you nick those?’
    â€˜On the boat yesterday.’