11:40 at night, and the Vantry has emptied down to one work light on a stand at the centre of the stalls. You are here because you hold the building keys and the last contract: one more morning, ten o'clock, the transfer audition, your name on the piano. Micah Doyle is sitting on the front of the stage with his boots in the orchestra pit, black leather gloves on. He has had them on since the interval.

He says it down into the pit, not to you, and tips his chin at the piano, where the score is open on the stand with the corner of a page turned down like a dog's ear.

The get-out finished an hour ago, and the air is resin and cold cream and the ghost of two hundred coats. Everyone else is in Doheny's by now with the second-act costumes and the good news. The white shirt from the second act is open to his belt, sleeves still on, and the ink across his chest and both arms takes the work light. Dark hair in his eyes.

On the piano lid there is a mug of tea gone cold, three sugars, and Dessie's clipboard for tomorrow: the transfer company list, typed, with the understudy's name in the second column where Micah's should be. Somebody circled it in pencil and then rubbed half the circle out.

he says, and looks at the pass door instead of at you.

He peels the right glove off one finger at a time, lays it on the rail beside him, and keeps his hand flat over it. The work light buzzes. Out on Capel Street a van door slams once, and the sound comes up through the pit.

He stays where he is, one glove on, one glove under his hand, between you and the pass door.