It was all about performance.
A man was sat on a bench in Windsor Park, where the path curves round the willow trees and the duck pond is just out of sight. Mothers hurried as they dragged their staring children past.
The man stared back with bright, sharp eyes atop an expansive, unruly beard. His clothes were ragged, a faded rainbow of dirty greys.
He winked at two young boys, chosen at random, then reached into his coat and theatrically produced a scraggy chicken. Its dead head lolled.
Next, with the children’s undivided fascination, he bit the head clean off.