“In Jury’s.”

“You booked in there? But I have a place.”

“Yea, that’s great, mate, but I might be shagging.”

Argue that. I went with the flow. Keegan is a force of nature, raw, ugly, powerful and unstoppable. There’s a nightclub on Eyre Square called Cuba. I don’t think there’s a Gaelic translation. Two o’clock, I’m there with Keegan and two women he’s cajoled. They appear to love him. He puts his arm round one, says,

“Jack, I love this country.”

“It sure loves you.”

“Too true, son; I’m a Fenian bastard.”

To hear that in an English accent is to have lived a very long time. The manager came over and I thought,

“Uh-oh.”

Wrong. It was to offer complimentary champagne. Keegan said,

“Bring it on, squire. We’ll have black pudding for breakfast.”

I’d resigned myself to the Twilight Zone. Over the next hour I told Keegan the events of the past weeks. He said,

“You mad bastard, I love you.”

Whatever else they label him, judgemental he wasn’t. He flashed a wad of notes at the girls, said,

“Trust my instincts, but you’d like sticky drinks with the umbrellas…am I right?”

He was and they adored him. He turned back to me, said,

“The dark-haired one, I want to ride the arse off that…OK?”

“Um…yes.”

“The quiet one, you have her, OK?”

“Thanks, I think.”

Then he got serious. All the yahoo-ism, vulgarity, the Hunter S. Thompson shenanigans dropped in a second. He said,

“Jack, I’m a good cop, only thing I can do, but the bastards are trying to get rid of me. Only a matter of time till they bounce me.”

“I’ve been there.”

“So, I’m only going to say one thing, mate.”

“OK.”

“Stick with the case. Nothing else matters.”

“I will.”

Then he clicked back to John Belushi, said to the girls,

“So, who wants to lick my face first?”

Next morning, opened my eyes, did a double take. A girl beside me. Last night came flooding back, at least as far as Cuba. She looked about sixteen. I moved the sheet, and oh fuck, she was naked. Jail bait. She stirred, woke and smiled, said,

“Hi.”

I’ve had worse beginnings. I answered,

“Hi, yourself.”

She cuddled into me, said,

“This is lovely.”

Then pulled back, said,

“Thank you for taking advantage.”

“Um…”

“You’re a real gent.”

Go figure. The heat from her was stirring me, and I said,

“Let me get some tea, toast.”

“Can we have breakfast in bed?”

“Course we can.”

“Jack, you’re the greatest.”

Out of bed, I was starkers. Bad idea. As beat up, as old as I am, nude doesn’t work. Grabbed a shirt and undies, and she said,

“You’re not in bad shape, you know.”

“Thanks, I think.”

Where was my hangover? I deserved a classic. Hadn’t hit yet. Downstairs, I found her handbag, went through it. Tissues, lighter, lipstick, keys, condoms. Jeez, these girls travelled ready. Her wallet with ID revealed her to be Laura Nealon, twenty-eight, and she worked in phone sales. A fresh pack of Benson & Hedges; I tore them open, got one primed. Did the breakfast stuff. Found a tray, it had the wedding of Diane and Charlie. I even located serviettes. Shunted that up the stairs. She said,

“Oh, Jack, a picnic.”

She patted the bed beside her. I declined and sat on the side. If she’d a hangover, it wasn’t showing. Ate that toast with vigour, asked,

“May I use the shower?”

“Of course.”

“Want to join me?”

“Ah, no, thanks.”

“You’re nice, Jack, I like you.”

Hard for me to get a handle on all this good energy. Man, I’m so used to grief. It’s familiar, almost comfortable. She returned, swathed in towels. I asked,

“Where did your friend go?”

“With Mr Keegan. She’s crazy about him. We were so lucky to hook up with you guys.”

I had to know, asked,

“Are you serious?”

“Completely. You wouldn’t believe the animals out there. I’m going to hang on to you, Jack.”

Then she was in my lap, doing things. Next thing, I’m having the blow job of my life. After, she asks,

“Was it good?”

“Brilliant.”

“I’ll make you happy, Jack, you’ll see.”

Heard the front door and thought,

“Oh, shit, Kiki’s back.”

Pulled my pants on and shuffled down. Sweeper was in the kitchen. I said,

“You’re going to have to pack in this coming and going as you please.”

“I rang the bell.”

“Oh, I must have been in the shower.”

Then he was looking behind me. I turned. Laura was there, in one of my shirts, said,

“Sorry, are my cigarettes here?”

Sweeper asked,

“Is this Kiki?”

“No…um, this is Laura.”

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

I gave her the cigarettes, and she said,

“I better get ready, I’ll be late for work.”

When she’d gone upstairs, Sweeper asked,

“That’s not your wife?”

“No.”

“I see.”

But he didn’t and neither did I. I said,

“I’ve a definite lead.”

“Tell me.”

I did. He said,

“You’re going to see this Bryson, I’ll come with you.”

“No.”

We argued this for a while. Eventually he agreed and offered to give Laura a lift to work. I headed downtown. Went to the Vincent de Paul and bought a suit, sweater, shirts, jeans, blazer. Grand total: £35. The assistant said,

“Did you know each item is dry cleaned?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“The shops provide it free for us.”

“Pretty good.”

“It is.”

Got a cab back to Hidden Valley with the gear. The driver said,

“Nice bit of clobber there.”

“Dry cleaned, too.”

“That’ll do it.”

I was a man with a new girlfriend, new wardrobe, the least I could provide was attitude. Wore the blazer with a crisp white shirt, grey slacks. I crackled in freshness. Coming outside, my neighbour said,

“You’re like a new penny.”

Heady praise.

The Simon is located at the top of the Fair Green. To the west is the train station, the coach depot to the south. Perhaps they like to hear the engines roar. Simon has saved countless lives from the Galway streets. It’s clean, tidy, efficient and always available. In a city where most people have a bad word about most things, only Simon gets praise from all. I went in and a receptionist said,

“Howyah.”

“Hello, I’m hoping to see Ronald Bryson.”

“Hang on a sec.”

There were no bad vibes. In a place that bears witness to such misery, you’d anticipate an air of depression. Not a hint. A tall lanky guy, over six feet two, in jeans, black T-shirt and suede waistcoat came ambling along. A ponytail and sharp acned features. An energy, like an Indian on the trail. No hurry, as he knew where you’d be. He drawled,

“I’m Ron.”

I stood up, held out my hand, said,

“Jack Taylor. Appreciate you seeing me.”

He waved a hand, ignoring my outstretched one, said,

“No sweat, Jack. Let’s get some privacy.”

English. That certain London inflexion of cool ease. I could dig if not grasp it.

He asked,

“Coffee?”

“No, I’m good, thanks.”

We went into a small office. He went behind the desk, got comfortable in a chair and swung his legs up. Old battered moccasins, definitely bought in Nepal. I sat on a hard chair. He began to hand roll from a leather pouch, raised his eyebrows, an offer. I shook my head, got a red going. I leant over, gave him a light, he said,

“Nice lighter.”

“Yes.”

“Before we begin, Jack, let me tell you my position here. I’m not with the Community. I’m a trained social worker, fully qualified.”

He paused and let me appreciate the full “weight” of this. I gave the appropriate half smile…too awed to speak. He resumed,

“So though I’m available to them, I’m not part of the organisation.”

He stopped, so I said,

“Like a consultant.”

Sour laugh.

“Hardly. Think of it more as an adviser.”

“I have it now.”