The New Policeman by Kate Thompson

were open. In his village they were called Green’s, Connolly’s and Sexton’s, but here they had no names; not written above their doors, anyway. Those people who were not dancing lounged against their walls or sat on benches or on the curb of the footpath, holding goblets and tankards, and pint glasses of what looked to J.J. suspiciously like draft Guinness.
    No one took any notice of him. The dog detached herself from him and parked herself on the footpath between the wall of Connolly’s and the arrangement of chairs, barrels, and upturned buckets where the musicians were seated. J.J. leaned against the corner and observed them from behind. There were six of them: two fiddlers, a piper, a whistle and a flute player, and, playing the bodhrán, the bearded man that J.J. had encountered chasing the goat. They were in the middle of a set of reels. J.J. knew the tune they were playing, or a version of it, but he couldn’t think of its name. They weren’t playing particularly fast, but the rhythm, the lift in the music was electrifying. It made J.J.’s feet itch to dance.
    The dancers didn’t form sets, like they did at the Liddy céilís, but nor did they dance alone, like the step or sean nós dancers at fleadhs. In someway the whole gathering contrived to dance both separately and together, interacting with one another now and again, then disengaging to form part of the bigger, and somehow perfectly circular, whole. Their footwork was spectacular; both energetic and graceful. Their bodies seemed to be as light as air.
    Far too soon for J.J. the set of tunes came to an end. The dancers drifted apart, laughing, adjusting their clothing or their hair. Some of them made for the pubs, others stood around and talked or flirted with one another. Some of the musicians got up as well, and as they did so they noticed him leaning against the wall. There was a brief discussion among them, then one of the fiddle players, a fair-haired young man with a winning smile, beckoned to him.
    “You’re welcome,” he said, guiding J.J. into an empty seat. “I haven’t seen you around here before.”
    “I haven’t been here before,” said J.J.
    “You’re all the more welcome, so,” said the fiddler. “We don’t see many new faces. What’s your name?”
    “J.J.”
    The young man introduced the musicians. The piper was called Cormac, the whistle and flute players were Jennie and Marcus, and the bodhrán player, thegoat chaser, was Devaney. The other fiddle player, who didn’t shake J.J.’s hand because she appeared to be asleep, was called Maggie.
    “And I’m Aengus,” the fiddler finished up. “Do you play yourself?”
    “I do, a bit,” said J.J. “Fiddle mostly. A small bit on the flute.”
    “Great stuff,” said Aengus. “You might play a tune with us.”
    “Ah, no.” J.J. was not normally shy to play, but the music he had heard here was subtly different in its rhythms and intonations. He would like to hear more before he picked up an instrument and tried to join in. Besides, he remembered with an effort, he had not come here to play tunes.
    “I came across this dog in the street. Do you know who she belongs to?”
    All the musicians turned and looked at the dog, which was now stretched at full length along the footpath.
    “That’s Bran,” said Jennie.
    “Is she yours?”
    “She isn’t anyone’s,” said Jennie.
    “Someone ought to take her to the vet,” said J.J. “I don’t mind doing it if no one else will.” He only hadten euros on him and he knew that wouldn’t pay a vet’s bill, but he would cross that bridge if and when he came to it.
    “There’s nothing anyone can do for Bran, J.J.,” said Aengus. “You shouldn’t concern yourself with her.”
    “Come and play a tune,” said Marcus.
    J.J. was horrified by everyone’s attitude toward the dog. He wasn’t sentimental himself; he had grown up around farm animals and had seen them with all kinds of damage. But Bran’s injuries were