saved from hugging her by the IV. She smiled, said,
“Tactile as ever, Jack.”
I sat on the edge of the bed, feeling like a horse’s arse. I said,
“Good news.”
Ridge looked like that would be impossible. I added,
“The guy they figured did for you, Brennan, someone paid him a visit.”
She sighed.
“Oh, Jack, you didn’t?”
True, I had some mileage in this field, but protested.
“I’m guessing it’s the C33 lunatic.”
Stewart said,
“C33 doesn’t leave the victims alive. You’d remember that if you were paying attention.”
I swung around, snarled,
“The fuck is the matter with you?”
He waved at Ridge, said,
“I’ll be back later, babe.”
Strode out.
I was after him, Ridge calling me back.
Caught up with him outside the hospital, a batch of huddled smokers to the right, like the ones God cast out of heaven and as cowed. Stewart gazed at them, muttered,
“Wish I smoked.”
I grabbed his shoulder, snapped,
“The fuck is with you?”
He stared me down but something was amiss with his focus and for a bizarre moment I thought he was stoned.
Stewart!
No way, ever. He’d been a dealer, did his time in jail, he’d eat a bullet before that. But . . .
He said,
“Brennan is at death’s door.”
I read it wrong and, Jesus, not the first time, asked,
“You think I did it?”
He gave a bitter smile.
“If it was you, Jack, the bastard would be dead, right?”
He moved to go, I asked,
“You’re thinking C33, but we didn’t get a letter, like the other times.”
“Jack, I’m working with all me might to think nothing, nothing at all.”
And was gone.
I went back to Ridge and tried to make desultory talk, until she exclaimed,
“Jack, you seem out of sorts.”
I sighed, sounding horrifically like my despised mother, said,
“Certainly out of something.”
13
If you don’t have sex and you don’t do drugs, your rock ’n’ roll better be awfully good.
—Abbie Hoffman
Purgatory is what the Americans term . . . a plea deal.
Since my evening with Reardon, I’d stayed clear of the booze but wondered what the tipping point would be for the headfirst dive into oblivion. Tried to tell myself I’d done good with the cigs.
“Hey, not smoking, no coke—way to go, fucking Saint Francis.”
I was having the first coffee of the morning, strong, heart-kick gig, using a small hand exerciser to build up the strength in the right hand, try to compensate for the lost fingers. I’d promised Ridge I’d be there to collect her on her release from the hospital. Her husband was hunting with the local hounds club. I kid thee not, fox hunting still being permitted on his lands.
His lands.
How utterly fucking Irish is that?
But like the rest of the country, he was in hock to his balls and, yet, the hunt must . . . run.
Fuckers.
The date for the household tax deadline had passed, less than half the population had paid it for the simple reason the others couldn’t. And now, still reeling from the sheer bullying tactics in the empowering of this, they were going to introduce water meters in every home. It was like they figured,
“We’ve broken the spirit of the people, now let’s really kick them in the nuts and then fuck them.”
Only a short time in power and they already had the distinction of being the most hated government of all time.
Some achievement.
The weather was once again doing its peekaboo act, rain to sun to wind to storm and freezing. I wrapped myself in my Garda coat, Galway United scarf, headed out. A man I’d swear I never saw before fell in step beside me, asking,
“You don’t mind if I walk with you, Jack?”
He looked harmless but what does that mean anymore? In his shredded forties, he was short with a very flash leather jacket, as if he expected a slot on The X Factor . I stopped, asked,
“I know you?”
Letting the aggression of no cigs leak over my words. He smiled—good teeth; bad, mean eyes—said,
“Ah, sure, you won’t be
“Tactile as ever, Jack.”
I sat on the edge of the bed, feeling like a horse’s arse. I said,
“Good news.”
Ridge looked like that would be impossible. I added,
“The guy they figured did for you, Brennan, someone paid him a visit.”
She sighed.
“Oh, Jack, you didn’t?”
True, I had some mileage in this field, but protested.
“I’m guessing it’s the C33 lunatic.”
Stewart said,
“C33 doesn’t leave the victims alive. You’d remember that if you were paying attention.”
I swung around, snarled,
“The fuck is the matter with you?”
He waved at Ridge, said,
“I’ll be back later, babe.”
Strode out.
I was after him, Ridge calling me back.
Caught up with him outside the hospital, a batch of huddled smokers to the right, like the ones God cast out of heaven and as cowed. Stewart gazed at them, muttered,
“Wish I smoked.”
I grabbed his shoulder, snapped,
“The fuck is with you?”
He stared me down but something was amiss with his focus and for a bizarre moment I thought he was stoned.
Stewart!
No way, ever. He’d been a dealer, did his time in jail, he’d eat a bullet before that. But . . .
He said,
“Brennan is at death’s door.”
I read it wrong and, Jesus, not the first time, asked,
“You think I did it?”
He gave a bitter smile.
“If it was you, Jack, the bastard would be dead, right?”
He moved to go, I asked,
“You’re thinking C33, but we didn’t get a letter, like the other times.”
“Jack, I’m working with all me might to think nothing, nothing at all.”
And was gone.
I went back to Ridge and tried to make desultory talk, until she exclaimed,
“Jack, you seem out of sorts.”
I sighed, sounding horrifically like my despised mother, said,
“Certainly out of something.”
13
If you don’t have sex and you don’t do drugs, your rock ’n’ roll better be awfully good.
—Abbie Hoffman
Purgatory is what the Americans term . . . a plea deal.
Since my evening with Reardon, I’d stayed clear of the booze but wondered what the tipping point would be for the headfirst dive into oblivion. Tried to tell myself I’d done good with the cigs.
“Hey, not smoking, no coke—way to go, fucking Saint Francis.”
I was having the first coffee of the morning, strong, heart-kick gig, using a small hand exerciser to build up the strength in the right hand, try to compensate for the lost fingers. I’d promised Ridge I’d be there to collect her on her release from the hospital. Her husband was hunting with the local hounds club. I kid thee not, fox hunting still being permitted on his lands.
His lands.
How utterly fucking Irish is that?
But like the rest of the country, he was in hock to his balls and, yet, the hunt must . . . run.
Fuckers.
The date for the household tax deadline had passed, less than half the population had paid it for the simple reason the others couldn’t. And now, still reeling from the sheer bullying tactics in the empowering of this, they were going to introduce water meters in every home. It was like they figured,
“We’ve broken the spirit of the people, now let’s really kick them in the nuts and then fuck them.”
Only a short time in power and they already had the distinction of being the most hated government of all time.
Some achievement.
The weather was once again doing its peekaboo act, rain to sun to wind to storm and freezing. I wrapped myself in my Garda coat, Galway United scarf, headed out. A man I’d swear I never saw before fell in step beside me, asking,
“You don’t mind if I walk with you, Jack?”
He looked harmless but what does that mean anymore? In his shredded forties, he was short with a very flash leather jacket, as if he expected a slot on The X Factor . I stopped, asked,
“I know you?”
Letting the aggression of no cigs leak over my words. He smiled—good teeth; bad, mean eyes—said,
“Ah, sure, you won’t be
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