Then I resaw the note. Trudged upstairs, and there on the bed was a parcel. Opened it to reveal brown Bally boots. Serious comfort. Kick the crap out of them and they came back, holding class. If I was to be buried in my boots, let them be Ballys. Came as close to weeping as self-pity will allow. Endured a shower, then put all the clothes in the wash, even the leather. Turned the mother on, thought,

“Too late for fabric softner.”

The phone went. I put a cig together, picked up, went,

“Hello.”

It wasn’t Kiki, but heard,

“ London calling.”

“What? Keegan?”

“That’s right, boyo.”

“How’d you get my number?”

“Rang the guards, spoke to a prick named Clancy. He doesn’t like you, mate.”

“Good Lord, wow, I mean hello.”

“Hello yourself. I have leave.”

“Leave?”

“Holidays, squire. I’m going to hop a flight.”

“Now?”

“You betcha. You want me to come, don’t you?”

“Sure.”

“OK then, eleven tonight, I’ll be in that Quays pub.”

“Tonight?”

“Get your skates on, pal; it’s going to be a bumpy ride.”

He hung up. I thought about his arrival, then thought,

“Why the hell not?”

If I dreamt, it was of nothing good. Woke in a coke sweat, muttered,

“Incoming!”

Horror of horrors, reached for Kiki and touched the Bally boots, whispered,

“Och, ochon.”

Which is Irish for “Oh sweetfuck”. Is it ever? The old Jackie Gleason Show, in black and white, he’d begin each episode with “How sweet it is.” I crawled into the shower, got it to scald and burned my way up. Checked the wardrobe and heard the refrain the drugs used to whisper to Richard Pryor:

“Getting a little low, Rich.”

Wore a white T-shirt – well, whiteish – the 501s, and pulled on the new boots. Perfect, which was a pity as that made me so guilty about Kiki. Alkies have to be the strangest animals on the planet, like the song says, a walking contradiction. Kris Kristofferson wrote the best lines of drinking despair. He was the personification of De Mello’s “Awareness”. If you really listen to “Sunday Morning Coming Down”, it’s the alky anthem. Particularly when you get the smell of someone frying chicken. That’s close to the loneliest line I’ve heard. London, wet Sunday afternoon, the pubs are shut, you’re battling that wind off Ladbroke Grove and, for an instant, a whiff of a home-cooked meal. You are seriously fucked.

Down to the kitchen, checked the time: eight forty-five. Brewed up some tea and dry toast, managed that. An impulse nagging at me. Figured I better make an attempt. Good old yellow pages. I began phoning.

“Hello?”

“Good evening, Imperial Hotel, how may we help you?”

“Do you have a…Mrs Taylor registered?”

“One moment, sir, I’ll check.”

For one awful moment, I feared my mother might come to the phone. Then,

“Sorry, sir, we don’t have anyone by that name registered.”

Click. I trawled through half a page. My tea got cold and the toast curled. Now there’s a country song. Was phoning by rote when,

“Yes, sir, we did have a Mrs Taylor, but she checked out.”

“Did she leave a forward?”

“I believe a cab took her to the airport.”

I missed her. Loaded the wet clothes into the dryer, including the leather, said,

“Melt, see if I care.”

My only other coat was Item 8234, my all-weather issue. They kept writing, demanding it back. The Mounties might always get their man, but the guards do not get their coat, not yet. Wrapped the coat tight. Didn’t do the coke, didn’t have a drink, but I could taste them. One final call; dialled, got,

“Simon Community, can I help?”

“May I speak to a Ronald Bryson?”

Heard a shout, an answer, then,

“Ron is off till noon tomorrow.”

“Could I see him then?”

“He’ll be here.”

Click. Enough detective work for one day; time to party. Checked my wallet and headed out. Five minutes to Nestor’s, how easy does it get? Decided to cut through St Patrick’s Church, shake a few memories. Stopped at the grotto. If I was to pray, it should be for Kiki. Heard,

“Well, I never. Jack Taylor in prayer.”

Fr Malachy, in all his smug glory. Even if I didn’t like priests, I wouldn’t like him. Ever. He was sucking the guts out of a dying cig. I said,

“Still smoking.”

“I was just with your mother.”

“Gee, that’s a shock.”

“Shock, is it? The poor woman is in deep trauma since she met you. To give her…teeth.”

“My teeth.”

He was raising his eyes in that “Lord give me strength” deal they learn at priest school. He said,

“She’ll never be the better of it.”

“Mmm, I’d say she’d recover.”

“What on earth possessed you?”

“The drink, Father, the drink made me do it.”

His right hand came up, automatic reflex when they’re crossed. So many years they could safely lash out without repercussions. I smiled and he fought back the urge. I turned to look at the statue, asked,

“If I claimed it moved, would it help business?”

“You’re a pup.”

He pulled out the Majors, got one lit, dragged madly as if he could inhale the rage. I said,

“I have some good news for my mother.”

“You’re leaving town?”

“No, I got married.”

“What?”

“But she’s leaving town. In fact, she’s already gone.”

“You have a wife and she’s gone already?”

“In a nutshell.”

He flung the cig into the grotto, said,

“You’re stone mad.”

“But never boring, right, Malachy?”

“To hell with you.”

And he stomped off, I called,

“That’s not a blessing.”

A local woman, passing, said,

“Good on you. That fellah’s got too big for his boots.”

I said the prayer for Kiki, albeit a short one.

In Nestor’s, Jeff asked,

“Did you find her?”

“She’s gone.”

“Gone.”

“Back to London.”

“Jeez, Jack.”

“Where’s Cathy?”

“She’s angry with you. Give her a few days.”

He put up a pint, said,

“On the house.”

“Thanks, Jeff.”

“What’s the plan?”

“I’m meeting Keegan.”

“Who?”

“Detective Sergeant Keegan, London Metropolitan Police.”

“In London?”

“No, in The Quays, in about an hour.”

“Is it work?”

“He’s a piece of work.”

“Forget I asked, forget I asked anything.”

The sentry was in place and he glared. I asked,

“What?”

“I liked your missus.”

“Oh, God.”

Heading down Shop Street. It was cold, but that didn’t stop the street theatre. Muted. Dented but there. A juggler outside Eason’s, a busker at Griffin ’s bakery, a Charlie Chaplin near Feeney’s. A German couple asked,

“Where can we find the Krak?”

I waved my hands in the direction I’d walked, asked,

“What do you call that?”

The Quays was jammed. Above the tumult I could hear an English accent with,

“A hot toddy, love, and a pint of the black stuff.”

Who else could it be? Chaz, my Romanian friend, came out of the crowd before I could call Keegan, said,

“Remember the fiver I lent you yesterday?”

“No, Chaz, I lent you.”

“You sure?”

“Yes, but did you want another?”

“You’re the best, Jack.”

“Tell my wife.”

Keegan was wearing a white sweatshirt with the logo “Póg mo thóin”, bright red golf pants and a Blackpool souvenir hat which begged,

“Kiss me quick.”

He shouted,

“Jack Taylor, me best mate.”

Shoved a pint in my hand, said,

“There’s hot ones on the counter and drink, too.”

I thought,

“Am I up for this? Is anyone up for this?”

I asked,

“Where’s your luggage?”