Molloy's mother had him at a very early age, so they are both old together. She is blind, deaf, bedridden and incontinent, and he communicates with her by rapping on her scrawny skull. She calls him Dan, which is not his name; he has named her Mag, also not hers, but it serves as an extension to Ma which extinguishes its claim to motherhood.

He is riding his bike to visit her, to get money and for other obscure motives, when he falls foul of a policeman. Molloy has learned to endure insults and abuse, but cannot bear blows; if people will refrain from hitting him, he can usually satisfy their demands - in the long run.

If he thinks while cycling, he tends to fall off; not thinking, he often gets lost. Accidentally mounting the pavement, he kills a small dog, and is set upon by a hostile crowd. The dog's lady owner rescues him, explaining that she had been taking the infirm dog to be put down anyway. He is, however, obliged to accompany her home to bury the animal in her garden. As the story ends he has, like a character from Kafka, still not succeeded in reaching his mother.

But this is not Kafka; it is, of course, inimitably Beckett, in an adaptation from the novel Molloy. Conor Lovett, of the Gare St Lazare Players, plays the title role with distinction. He seems too young for the part, but the subtlety of his performance soon captures his audience. For some 60 minutes he is the essence of embittered fatalism. As directed by Judy Hegarty, this is a performance to savour.

Plays until Saturday; booking at 01-6795720