The Horse With My Name by Bateman Page A

personally. I took one look at it and said, ‘This is the car that flattened Corkery.’
    She nodded. ‘It’s okay. It’s been cleaned.’
    I took her word for it, but it seemed to me that at least some of her late boyfriend would still be going to the races. Perhaps his soul had transferred into the car. Maybe my life was turning into Herbie Goes to the Races . Or possibly Christine . I had my laptop and an e-mail address for the Horse Whisperer. She handed over Corkery’s ATM card and his bank card and said there was around a thousand pounds between the two accounts and I was welcome to use it as expenses. I said I wouldn’t abuse her trust, and she laughed, although I think she meant it kindly. I promised her I would do my best; I also pointed out that my wife usually said that my best wasn’t good enough. She said she had every faith in me and gave me an Easter egg. I looked at it and thought about my dead son, then gave her a hug. If she’d been twenty years younger I’d have invited her to come along, and she’d have said no.
    I drove south. I filled up on petrol before crossing into the unoccupied twenty-six. Not that it was any cheaper, but just so that I wouldn’t be contributing to their economy. It wasn’t much, but it was something. Then on across the border, or lack of it. There’s nothing physical any more, just a sense of time warp and the grass seems a little less green. I drove through Dundalk, still home to hundreds of terrorists, then turned right at Drogheda. I passed through Slane, where I’d once seen Bruce Springsteen play a massive open-air concert, and then across the Boyne river, whereKing William of Orange had co-headlined an even bigger gig with King James three hundred years before, so successful that people were still talking about it.
    I arrived in Ashtown in early evening. It took me a while to find the house, and sixteen seconds to move in my worldly possessions. It was recently built and had five bedrooms, which was four too many. There was a television and an ensuite shower and a kitchen I could have swung a whole family of cats in. There was an intercom system for fending off unwelcome visitors. There was a Spar around the corner. I bought groceries and a bottle of Ribena. I was pleasant and they were pleasant. They asked me if I was down for the races and I said yeah. I refrained from asking if the murder suspect Geordie McClean was a regular. I returned home and made myself beans on toast. Before I could launch into them there was a knock on the door. When I opened it there was a man in a smart suit standing there with three oil paintings in his arms.
    He smiled pleasantly and said, ‘Would you like to buy an oil painting?’
    ‘Excuse me?’
    ‘Would you like to buy an oil painting?’
    ‘I don’t think so.’
    ‘They’re by some of Ireland’s finest artists. I’ve been selling them for twenty years.’
    ‘And you still haven’t got the message.’
    ‘Sorry?’
    ‘I said, I don’t need an oil painting.’
    ‘Okay. Do you mind if I call again?’
    ‘I’m only here for the weekend.’
    ‘Oh. Right. Fair enough then.’
    If he’d had a cap, he would have doffed it. Off he went back to his car. I watched him load up his paintings and drive off. Across the road kids with hurley sticks werestaring at me. I closed the door and went back to my beans. I reheated them.
    Five minutes later the doorbell went again. When I opened up there was a man standing there with a coat on a hanger and a receipt book under his arm. ‘Do you want any dry-cleaning done?’
    ‘What?’
    ‘Do you want anything dry-cleaned? I’ve been dry-cleaning in this area for twenty years. I call every Monday.’
    ‘This is Saturday.’
    ‘I know, but it’s Easter Monday on Monday, there’ll be no dry-cleaning done that day. So I’m calling today. Do you want anything dry-cleaned?’
    ‘No, I don’t think so.’
    ‘Right-oh, then. Good afternoon now.’
    I watched him go down the path