Have to submit an extract for an application. It's a character/scene intro, would appreciate any thoughts or suggestions.

The event is in an exhibition centre on the outskirts of the city, where patchwork fields are veined by the approaching sprawl. I debark the Luas and cross the concrete plaza in a stream of ticket holders. They’re lively, smelling of pre-drinks and sour aftershave. The venue looms ahead, a modernist assortment of spikes and curves that has me thinking of molluscs while I scan the place for Rodney. It’s that grey evening hour just before the lamps come on and the colours are fading with the daylight. The queue for admission is a chain of upright shadows. Rodney stands alone beside the entrance, sweeping the scene with wide eyes, swivelling his whole body to alter the direction of his head. I cut across the tide of bodies and walk up to him.

‘Zone X,’ I say. ‘I didn’t know the tram even came out this far.’

Rodney doesn’t acknowledge.

‘It’s a post-apocalyptic encounter,’ he blurts, turning to face the next wave of people approaching from the platform. ‘This place is one of the last surviving outposts of civilization, and this building is some sort of army base.’ He points without looking to the convention centre. ‘We’re old friends and we cross paths here, each surprised to see the other is alive. You call me a tough son of a bitch. I tell you I thought I’d never see your sorry ass again. We’re overjoyed. But we can’t stay. We are on our own personal journeys. A sweetheart to save, a family to reunite, that sort of thing.’

I wait a beat. Rodney’s daydreams are like the heaves of an offended stomach, each thought instantly purged as if it would poison him. If interrupted, he can become upset and start twisting the skin on the back of his hand.

‘So this is where we wish each other luck,’ he continues, ‘before we leave the outpost and venture into the unknown chaos, out there.’ He points to the trees going black on the horizon.

I follow his finger. ‘Kildare?’

Rodney wears a lime green nylon jacket with the drawcords yanked and the hem muffined around his waist. A red backpack is jacked to the nape of his neck like a prosthetic hump and his back-to-school grey trousers are hiked high, their cuffs swishing the cream bulk of his no-brand trainers. It’s my thinking that he should have been called something else, the name ‘Rodney’ suggesting a measure of homespun nous or street wisdom which the boy sorely lacks. Even here, amid groups of rowdy men, the gurgle of excitement in his voice turns heads.