I arranged to meet Brendan Flood. He suggested Super-mac’s. I got there first and took a table. Sign of the new Ireland, two black men were cleaning tables. I made a point of saying “Hello” but seemed to frighten them. Jesus, wait till they saw what the pubs and clubs disgorged at four in the morning. Then they’d know fear. Both the guards and the taxi men avoided it during the war zone. Those guys know. Brendan arrived in a suit, remarkably similar to my own recent purchase. I said,

“They get the dry cleaning free.”

“Who?”

“Vincent de Paul.”

“How do you know?”

“I’m a detective.”

He looked round, and I asked,

“Why meet here?”

“They do lovely curried chips.”

“Want some?”

“Oh, no. I gave them up for penance.”

I let it slide. Would only open up all that ecclesiastical mayhem. I passed over a wad of money, said,

“For the missions.”

“What do you need from me?”

“Ronald Bryson’s address and the times he’s out.”

He nodded, asked,

“You met with him?”

“I did.”

“Is he the one?”

“He’s the one.”

I took my mobile phone on the date. Rarely I took it anywhere. I need to get out more. When it rings, it puts the shite cross-ways in me, and I swear “never again”. Only Jeff, Sweeper and Keegan had the number. Gave me an artificial sense of control. Dressed to impress. Wore the now-creaking leather. One day of Galway rain would wipe them notions. A white shirt and soft-to-softer faded jeans. You put them on, your body sways to the music of thanks. The off-white colour between stone and disintegration. Then the Bally boots. Oh, Kiki.

Walking down the town, two guards were coming towards me. Their combined age might be twenty. I said in the Galway vernacular,

“Min.”

They said,

“Sir.”

How old was that?

Garavan’s was hopping nicely. Old Galway still prowls there. A school friend said,

“Jack.”

I said,

“Liam.”

No more. Irish warmth at its best; that is, completely understated. Works for me. Laura was sitting at the back, stood up to greet me. Wearing what can only be called a slip. It revealed everything. She did a twirl. I said,

“Wow!”

“It’s a wow?”

“And more.”

I wondered, if she sat, where would the dress go. She said,

“It’s called a sheath.”

“I’m not going to argue that.”

I’d have said hankie, but there you go. She smelled great, so I told her. She said,

“It’s Paris.”

“It certainly is. What will you drink?”

“ Metz.”

I thought she was kidding, asked,

“Are you kidding?”

“No, I always have that.”

“It’s what the winos drink, 100 proof.”

She was lost, said,

“It comes in a silver bottle, with schnapps and orange, says Metz in black letters.”

“Oh.”

Feeling a horse’s ass, I went to the counter. Shelves of the stuff alongside all the other alcopops. Frigging evil it is. Came back with that and a pint, asked,

“Do you need a glass?”

“Oh, God, no.”

In my youth, you drank from the bottle ’cause there were no glasses. The mobile went. I wasn’t going to answer, but what if Sweeper was hurt? It was Jeff; he had hurt in his voice.

“Jack.”

“Jeff, how’s it going?”

“Cathy’s had the baby.”

“Oh, great. Is she OK?”

“I don’t know. Could you come?”

“On my way.”

Told Laura. She asked,

“Boy or girl?”

“Um…”

“What weight?”

“Um…”

“Jack.”

“Jeez, Laura, these are women questions; guys never think to ask.”

Leastways not any I knew.

She said,

“You better go.”

“What about you?”

“Can I wait in Hidden Valley?”

“Course.”

I gave her the keys. She spotted the miraculous medal, asked,

“Do you have a devotion to Our Lady?”

Irish women, they’ll kill you every time. They juggle a mix of blunt-nosed reality and a melting simplicity. Just when you’ve them figured, they blow you away. I said, “Jeff gave it to me.”

“Then the baby will be fine.”

She leant over, gave me a hard kiss, said,

“I’m up to me arse in love with you.”

Like I said, blow you away.

I caught a cab at Dominic Street. He began,

“You know the trouble with Man U?”

As I got out at the hospital, he was saying,

“Know who I blame?”

Jeff was at reception, said,

“Let’s go out, I need a smoke.”

“But you quit.”

“Jack…like I need a lecture from you?”

Fair enough. He looked awful. I’ve been wrecked so often, I’m surprised it’s ever someone else. I didn’t mention that. I shook loose the cigs, fired the Zippo, and he gulped down that smoke, said,

“If I’d coke, I’d demolish it.”

In the time I’d known Jeff, he was Mr Cool. Never no fuss, no moods, just glided on by. Life had him by the balls now. I said,

“Do I say congratulations…buy cigars or what?”

“She had the baby.”

“Boy or girl…oh…and what weight?”

“A girl. How would I know the weight? She’s a tiny wee thing.”

There! Right there was a difference. Jeff from The Big Lebowski was a father. All in a tone of voice. From hippie to protector in a few words. Truly astonishing. He was into it now.

“We’ve been here all day. Cathy, Jeez man, she’s good as gold. Then six o’clock, said they’d do a section. I’m like sick, Jack. The nurse comes down, gives me her jewellery, I thought she’d died. Fuck, man, the whole world ended. Lose her and I’m totally gone.”

For a moment he was, then snapped back.

“Ten to seven, they’re going, ‘Congratulations, you are a father,’ but muted, man. I knew something was off. They show me this little bundle, and it’s my daughter. I know nothing about babies, Jack, but she seems…limp. The paediatrician comes along, says, ‘I am so sorry, your baby has Down’s syndrome.’ ”

I think he’s going to pass out.

“Jeff, yo buddy, can I get you something, tea, coffee…a drink?”

He takes another cig but not a light, goes,

“I can’t get my head around it, is it cystic fibrosis, which flogging horror? I can get the names but not the details. Here’s the tune, pal, but we can’t help with the lyrics.”

Long pause as he gasps for second breath, then,

“OK, the guy explains it. She has an extra chromosome; she’s mild, which means she’ll take six months a year to catch up on other kids. I go down to Cathy, and you know what she says, Jack?”

I shook my head. Speak?…I couldn’t even smoke.

“She says, ‘Darling, I’ve let you down.’ I’ll carry those words to my grave. The nurse handed me the baby, and Cathy asks, ‘Do you love her, love?’ ”

Then he physically dredged himself up, handed me the unlit cig, said,

“No, I won’t be using them.”

“Good man, you’ve got a daughter to raise.”

They called her Serena May. Serena for the old Karmic vibe and May for “May all her dreams come true.” Asked me to be the godfather. Jeff had invited me up to see the mother and daughter, and in that hospital room, I felt like an intruder. At first I demurred, saying,

“I’m not the godfather type.”

Cathy gave me the look, so I added,

“I’d be privileged to be the guardian.”

Jeff handed the baby to me and I made all the guy protests till Cathy said,

“Oh, go on, be a bad influence already.”

Took her. This minute being, no more weight than half a pint, opens her eyes and looks. I said,

“She’s eyeballing me.”

Jeff said,

“She knows about ‘the guards’.”

I realised then for a fleeting moment what Thomas Merton knew. Serena didn’t have an extra chromosome; it was us, the normal ones, who were lacking the added spark. Would I could have held on to that moment, if I could have just sampled the energy for a little longer. I’d no longer need oblivion. Such knowledge is shocking, and few can handle it with care. I was even less able than I’d have imagined.