He’d tape mad stuff off the TV which ye’d watch at sleepovers above his mam’s café. Stuff with boobs in it and everything. Half the time ye didn’t understand the films at all. But ye’d watch them and know that ye were reaching out to something bigger than Kinlough—touching the Other Place, a world that was realer and more romantic than life—and sometimes the movie would linger in the room afterwards like an echo of the future and ye’d sit by the window of his mam’s flat and stare out over Fox Street saying nothing.
