bar for the drink. ‘Everyone else gone home?’
‘Aye,’ he replied, a little more quietly, ‘soft shower of bastards. Used to be an occasion like this they’d be throwing us out at closing and then we’d head off to a party . . .’
‘Usually at my house . . .’
‘. . . usually at your house. But half of them spent the whole friggin’ afternoon on their mobiles making sure––’ His mobile beeped. Without a blink he answered it. ‘No,’he told it, ‘page seven . . . he’s never been front page in his life . . .’ Then he clicked it off and turned back to me. ‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘where was I?’
‘Bastards with mobiles.’
‘Oh aye, and it was all mineral water this and iced tea that. The cunts.’
I nodded and sipped my pint.
‘How was the old girl?’ he asked.
‘Corkery’s?’ He nodded. ‘Okay.’
‘What’s your interest up there?’
‘Nothing. Paying my respects.’
‘You? It’s not your style. What’re you after, Dan?’
‘Why do I have to be after anything?’
‘Because I know you.’
I shrugged and looked at my pint for a while. Mouse looked at his. There was racing on the TV above the bar but I tried not to show any obvious interest. The brown horse seemed to be leading. I said, ‘You ever hear of the Horse Whisperer, Mouse?’
He kept his eyes on the screen, but nodded slowly.
‘What do you think?’
‘I think Redford’s starting to show his age.’
I took a sip. ‘I’m thinking of going back to work.’
‘I thought you might be.’
‘I’ll be looking for some freelance shifts.’
‘Shouldn’t be a problem.’
‘But first I’m going south. Dublin way.’
‘Is it something to do with Corkery?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Anything I can do?’
‘Keep an eye on Trish.’
‘As ever.’
‘She’s living on Windsor Avenue with some bloke. She seems happy. We have to break it up. See if you can findout anything about him. There’s bound to be something, he has a beard. His name’s Clive.’
‘Beard and Clive. I hate him already. Any chance of a surname?’
I shook my head. ‘She’s playing her cards close to her chest.’
‘And what a chest it is. In a strictly not-interested-in-my-best-friend’s-ex-wife’s-chest kind of a way.’ He cleared his throat. ‘So where should I start?’
‘By checking a list of all those recently released from institutions for the criminally insane.’
‘Are you serious? You think he’s . . .?’
‘Well of course. He’d have to be fucking mental to take on Trish, wouldn’t he?’
6
There are one-horse towns, and there are thousand-horse towns, and Ashtown is a combination of the two. Twenty minutes north of Dublin, three pubs, one victualler’s, a post office with a green postbox outside and a video store. Its claim to fame is having the Fairyhouse Racecourse, home of the Irish Grand National, a stone’s throw away. Beside the course stands the Irish base of Tattersalls, the world’s first bloodstock auction house. Ten thousand horses a year pass through its books and parade rings, millions upon millions of dollars. Horses are to Ashtown as dope is to Amsterdam, and the business can be just as murky.
I drove down on Easter Saturday. It was a relief to get out of Belfast, partly because there was a hiccup in the peace process and all sorts of trouble was threatening to break out, but mostly to get away from me. The old me. The memories and the broken heart. I put them into a shoebox and pushed them under the bed in my little palace. Out of courtesy I called the landlord and told him I’d be away for a few days. I’d the feeling it wouldn’t have worried him if I dropped dead, decomposed and started dripping through to the slum flat below as long asthe Government rent cheque kept filtering into his bank account.
Hilda had given me the lend of a car and the keys to the house in Ashtown that Corkery had rented for the duration of the Easter races at Fairyhouse. She drove round to hand the car over
‘Aye,’ he replied, a little more quietly, ‘soft shower of bastards. Used to be an occasion like this they’d be throwing us out at closing and then we’d head off to a party . . .’
‘Usually at my house . . .’
‘. . . usually at your house. But half of them spent the whole friggin’ afternoon on their mobiles making sure––’ His mobile beeped. Without a blink he answered it. ‘No,’he told it, ‘page seven . . . he’s never been front page in his life . . .’ Then he clicked it off and turned back to me. ‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘where was I?’
‘Bastards with mobiles.’
‘Oh aye, and it was all mineral water this and iced tea that. The cunts.’
I nodded and sipped my pint.
‘How was the old girl?’ he asked.
‘Corkery’s?’ He nodded. ‘Okay.’
‘What’s your interest up there?’
‘Nothing. Paying my respects.’
‘You? It’s not your style. What’re you after, Dan?’
‘Why do I have to be after anything?’
‘Because I know you.’
I shrugged and looked at my pint for a while. Mouse looked at his. There was racing on the TV above the bar but I tried not to show any obvious interest. The brown horse seemed to be leading. I said, ‘You ever hear of the Horse Whisperer, Mouse?’
He kept his eyes on the screen, but nodded slowly.
‘What do you think?’
‘I think Redford’s starting to show his age.’
I took a sip. ‘I’m thinking of going back to work.’
‘I thought you might be.’
‘I’ll be looking for some freelance shifts.’
‘Shouldn’t be a problem.’
‘But first I’m going south. Dublin way.’
‘Is it something to do with Corkery?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Anything I can do?’
‘Keep an eye on Trish.’
‘As ever.’
‘She’s living on Windsor Avenue with some bloke. She seems happy. We have to break it up. See if you can findout anything about him. There’s bound to be something, he has a beard. His name’s Clive.’
‘Beard and Clive. I hate him already. Any chance of a surname?’
I shook my head. ‘She’s playing her cards close to her chest.’
‘And what a chest it is. In a strictly not-interested-in-my-best-friend’s-ex-wife’s-chest kind of a way.’ He cleared his throat. ‘So where should I start?’
‘By checking a list of all those recently released from institutions for the criminally insane.’
‘Are you serious? You think he’s . . .?’
‘Well of course. He’d have to be fucking mental to take on Trish, wouldn’t he?’
6
There are one-horse towns, and there are thousand-horse towns, and Ashtown is a combination of the two. Twenty minutes north of Dublin, three pubs, one victualler’s, a post office with a green postbox outside and a video store. Its claim to fame is having the Fairyhouse Racecourse, home of the Irish Grand National, a stone’s throw away. Beside the course stands the Irish base of Tattersalls, the world’s first bloodstock auction house. Ten thousand horses a year pass through its books and parade rings, millions upon millions of dollars. Horses are to Ashtown as dope is to Amsterdam, and the business can be just as murky.
I drove down on Easter Saturday. It was a relief to get out of Belfast, partly because there was a hiccup in the peace process and all sorts of trouble was threatening to break out, but mostly to get away from me. The old me. The memories and the broken heart. I put them into a shoebox and pushed them under the bed in my little palace. Out of courtesy I called the landlord and told him I’d be away for a few days. I’d the feeling it wouldn’t have worried him if I dropped dead, decomposed and started dripping through to the slum flat below as long asthe Government rent cheque kept filtering into his bank account.
Hilda had given me the lend of a car and the keys to the house in Ashtown that Corkery had rented for the duration of the Easter races at Fairyhouse. She drove round to hand the car over
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