There’s a pub on the docks called Sweeney’s, small, dark and dangerous. A chance dropper-in gets carried out. Tourists do not find it. I planned on a visit. Went to Dunnes and splashed out. Big time. I’d shopped in charity outlets for so long, I was truly appalled at real prices. But said fuckit; I had a stash. Shot through the shop like a mini Haughey. Balls, attitude and dubious taste. Four sweatshirts, three jeans, permacrease chinos, sneakers, white Ts, sports jacket. The assistant asked,

“Have you got a club card?”

“Take a wild guess.”

“I’m supposed to ask.”

I had no idea why I was giving her grief. You work for Dunnes, you have shovelfuls already. I handed over a small ransom, read her name tag, said,

“You’re doing a great job, Fiona.”

“How would you know?”

“Touché. You’ll go far.”

Brought the stuff home. Considered: for a villain meet, did you dress up…or down? Compromised. New navy sweatshirt, faded jeans and a fucked leather. Now if that wasn’t a mixed message, then my time in the guards was truly wasted. Transferred the Down’s syndrome pin to the leather. I looked like that wanker who advertises insurance for the over fifties. Had a quick listen to Johhny Duhan and I was set. Walking down Shop Street. I saw my mother looking in Taffes’ window. There was nothing in it, not a single item. I kept walking. At Griffin ’s bakery, I met the bookie I had once fleeced. The aroma of fresh bread was like hope. I said,

“How’s it going?”

He indicated his bread, said,

“I got my grinder.”

“That’ll do it.”

“You won’t be calling any time soon?”

“I hadn’t planned to.”

“Good news at last.”

A refugee asked me for my jacket. I said,

“It’s got sentimental value.”

“I don’t care, give it to me.”

Jesus.

The docks are full changed. When I was a child, it was a magical if forbidding zone. Equal part danger and temptation. Dockers were men of true stature. You might fuck with all types but never them. I was lucky to have met the very best of them. Luxury apartments, new hotels, language schools and leisure craft had overtaken the area. It might have been progress, but it was not an improvement. An oasis of old Galway was Sweeney’s. I think developers were too intimidated to approach the owners. I pushed open the door, inhaled the mix of fish and nicotine. Conversation died till they got a fix on me. Then, an audible sigh of ease and talk resumed. Bill had a table near the bar. He was alone.

For a man of fearsome reputation, he had a slight frame. Slighter now. The skin on his face seemed stretched to burst. As if someone had applied an undercoat, then forgot to add the finish. His eyes, still granite, were deep set in his skull. A glass of fresh orange juice in an old style glass stood before him. Pips floated near the surface. He said,

“Jack.”

“Bill.”

“Take a seat.”

I did.

Up close and personal, he looked like an Aids victim. He said, without moving, to the barman, “Pint for Jack.”

I asked,

“Can I smoke?”

He gave a dry smile, said,

“Course.”

The ashtray was advertising Capstan Mild. I shook loose a red, fired up with the Zippo. Bill put out a skeletal hand, asked,

“Mind if I have a look?”

I passed it over. He hefted it in his palm, said,

“Bit o’ weight.”

“Yes.”

“Want to sell it?”

“It’s on loan.”

“Isn’t everything?”

The pint came. Probably among the better poured. I said,

“Sláinte.”

For one awful second I’d nearly said,

“Good health.”

Bill let me savour the moment, then,

“What do you want, Jack?”

“Help.”

He stared at his orange juice before saying,

“I heard you did a number on the Tiernans.”

“Not friends of yours, I hope?”

“If they were, you wouldn’t be sitting there.”

The barman leaned over, said,

“You’re wanted on the phone.”

“Not now.”

Then back to me.

“You’re running around town with a cop.”

“I am.”

“Jesus, Jack, an English one.”

“He’s part Irish.”

“Bollocks.”

The word shook his delicate body. I asked,

“Are you sick?”

“Liver cancer.”

“Oh, God.”

“I don’t think God had a lot to do with it. Blame Sell-afield, least it’s English. What kind of help had you in mind, Jack?”

“There’s a girl, named Laura Nealon.”

“I know the family.”

“I want her protected.”

“Who’s after her besides yourself?”

“An English guy, name of Ronald Bryson, works sometimes with the Simon.”

Bill was shaking his head.

“What is it with you and the English? You spent years planning to go to London, all the time, London ’s coming to you.”

“You have a point.”

“OK, Jack, you know how this works or you wouldn’t have come. I’ll arrange what you ask. But I don’t need to remind you, there’s no free lunch.”

“Meaning I owe you.”

“Exactly.”

“What do you want?”

“Who knows? You’ll get a call asking for a favour. It’s not negotiable.”

“I know how it works.”

“Be sure you do, Jack.”

The interview was over. I stood up, asked,

“How’s your mother?”

“Dead, thanks.”

In 1987, a garda training committee, its report on probationer training, defined for the first time a philosophy for the modern garda. The citizen expected police officers:

To have the wisdom of Solomon, the courage of David, the strength of Samson, the patience of Job, the leadership of Moses, the kindness of the good Samaritan, the strategical training of Alexander, the faith of Daniel, the diplomacy of Lincoln, the tolerance of the carpenter of Nazareth and finally an intimate knowledge of every branch of the natural, biographical and social sciences.

If he had all these, he might be a good policeman.

Parts of that had swirled through my dreams, and I slept till noon the following day. I was deep whacked. All the events of the preceding days had found voice and cried,

“Enough.”

I’d left messages for Keegan, Laura, Sweeper. To Keegan to say, “Thanks.” To Laura to say, “Let’s go dancing.” To Sweeper to say, “Nearly there.” The three messages contained only two lies. Cokeless, I’d got into bed with a hot toddy and one of the books furnished by Keegan. Kiss Tomorrow Goodbye by Horace McCoy, a classic of noir, though McCoy was best known for They Shoot Horses, Don’t They? Halfway through the drink I was asleep. At least all I was burning was a bulb.

I took a long shower, blasted away the cobwebs. A glance in the mirror. Time to trim my beard, managed it without a tremor, progress of the slanted variety. Fresh sweatshirt, new jeans, and I was cooking. Downstairs to an envelope. Recognised the handwriting: Kiki. A bit of weight so it was going to be comprehensive; coffee first. I was feeling good not stupid. Two slices of toast with sizzling strips of bacon. Or rashers, as I’d told Keegan. Put that away, poured second coffee, lit a red and breathed Kiki. Opened the letter.

Dear Jack

The term metaphysics does not always evoke the same idea in different minds. In some people, it gives rise to a feeling of aversion because for them it means vague speculations, uncontrollable assertions and a trespassing of the boundaries of reason which is more akin to poetry than talking. Others see just the opposite in metaphysics, namely an extraordinarily obstinate effort to think clearly and cogently. Would it help you, Jack, to know the origin of the term? Among Aristotle’s works there are a few short treatises concerned with what he calls first philosophy. These were united into a work of ten books, which, as is supposed, Andronicus of Rhodes in his edition of Aristotle’s works called La Meta Physic, because of their location after the physical treatises.

Is this clear to you, Jack?