“Ah, you’re pissed off.”

He squeezed the glass, said,

“I wouldn’t mind if you’d earned it.”

“I found the most likely suspect.”

“And he’s…where?”

I’d had enough, said,

“I’ve had enough. Was there anything else?”

“No. Could I borrow some books?”

“You read?”

“You think tinkers don’t read?”

“Gimme a break. I’m in no mood for persecution gigs.”

He didn’t move, said,

“So, the books?”

I moved to the front door, said,

“Join the library.”

He stood at the step, said,

“You’re not letting me have books?”

“Buy your own.”

And I slammed the door in his face.

The bell rang again and I pulled it open, ready for fight. It was my neighbour. I said,

“Oh.”

He looked rough at the best of times. Now he appeared to have been turned inside out and trampled. He held a bottle, said,

“Poitín.”

“Um…thanks…I think.”

“I bought a scratch card, won.”

“Much?”

“I’ve been on the batter for a week.”

“That much, eh?”

“I was in a human pub last night.”

“A what?”

“You open the door and everybody’s singing…‘I’m only human’.”

I held up the bottle. The liquid was as clear as glass. I said,

“The real McCoy.”

He shuddered, said,

“I can vouch for that. The still is in Roscommon.”

“I thought the guards were cracking down.”

“A guard sold it to me.”

“A guarantee in itself.”

“None better.”

Another day of hibernation. On the radio for some reason they’re playing an interview with Muhammad Ali. I’m only half listening till,

“The man who views the world at fifty the same as he did at twenty has wasted thirty years of his life.”

I’m turning that sucker over.

Jesus.

Figuring it’s time to return to crime, bookwise anyway. I get stuck into Lawerence Block; have to speed-read him as Matt Scudder, his hero, speaks at length about recovery from alcoholism. Thin ice at its thinnest. Worse, at one stage, he describes the difference between an alcoholic and a junkie. With the cloud of speed, coke over me and a bottle of poitín in the cupboard, I’m between that rock and a hard place. Am I ever? Phew-oh. He writes:

“Show a stone junkie the Garden of Eden and he’ll say he wants it dark and cold and miserable. And he wants to be the only one there.”

I stood up, got a cig, I was not enjoying this passage. Put on Johnny Duhan’s Flame. The perfect album for my fragmented state. By the third track, I’m easing down, said,

“OK.”

And went back to Block.

“The difference between the drunk and the junkie is the drunk will steal your wallet. So will the junkie, but then he’ll help you look for it.”

I put the book aside, said,

“Enough, time to go out.”

And out I went, more’s the Irish pity.

Passing the GBC I thought of my last meeting there with Keegan. On that whim, I went in, got a double cappuccino and an almond croissant. Asked the assistant,

“Don’t put sprinkle on.”

She was amazed, said,

“How can you drink it without that?”

“With great relish, OK?”

Took a window seat, let the world cruise by. Cut a wedge of the croissant and began to chew. Good? It was heaven. Helped distance the coke craving. A woman approached, said,

“You’re Jack Taylor.”

Mid bite, I managed,

“Yes.”

“Might I have a minute?”

“OK.”

She was late fifties but well-preserved. Wearing the sort of suit popularised by Maggie Thatcher. Which told me one thing: “Pay attention.” She sat, fixed me with a steady gaze, asked,

“Do you know me?”

“No, no, I don’t.”

“Mrs Nealon, Laura’s mother.”

I put out my hand and she gave it a scornful glance, said,

“We’re in the same age bracket, wouldn’t you say?”

The froth on my coffee was disappearing. I tried for the light touch, said,

“Give or take ten years.”

Bad idea. She launched,

“I hardly think Laura’s in your range, do you?”

“Mrs Nealon, it isn’t a serious thing.”

Her eyes flashed.

“How dare you? My daughter is besotted.”

“I think you’re overstating it.”

She stood up, her voice loud.

“Leave her alone, you dirty lecher.”

And stormed out.

All eyes in the place on me, high with recrimination. I looked at the pastry, curling in on itself, thought,

“Too sweet really.”

The cappuccino had wasted away entirely.

As I slunk out of there, I remembered a line of Borges that Kiki was fond of quoting:

“Waking up, if only morning meant oblivion.”

Tried to tell myself the old Galwegian line:

“The GBC is for country people. Them and commercial travellers.”

Would it fly? Would it fuck.

Rang Laura, who exclaimed,

“You’re better.”

“What?”

“Your flu, it’s gone.”

“Oh, yeah.”

“I’m so happy. I bought you a get-well card, it has Snoopy on the front, and I don’t even know if you like him. Oh Jack, there’s so much I’m dying to know about you. I’ll come over right now.”

“Laura…I…um…listen…I won’t be seeing you.”

“You mean today?”

“Today and…every other day.”

“Why, Jack? Did I do something wrong? Did I…”

I had to cut this, said,

“I’ve met someone else.”

“Oh God, is she lovely?”

“She’s older.”

And I hung up.

Lord knows, feeling bad is the skin I’ve worn almost all my life. Standing there, the dead phone in my hand, I plunged new depths. Walked to the cupboard, took out the poitín and the doorbell went. I said,

“Fuck.”

Stomped out and tore the door open. It was Brendan Flood, ex-garda, religious nut, information grand master. Through gritted teeth, I said,

“I gave at the office.”

Took him a minute, then,

“I’m not begging.”

I moved past him, examined the door. He looked at me questioningly. I said,

“Thought maybe there was a sign here that read ‘Assholes Convention’.”

Went inside, showed him into the living room. The poitín was neon lit in the kitchen. I gestured to the sofa and he sat. He had a battered briefcase which he placed on his knees. He said,

“You look better, Jack.”

“Clean living.”

“Our prayers are working, alleluia.”

“What do you want?”

He opened the briefcase, began to sort through papers, said,

“You’ll know about forensic psychology.”

“Not much.”

“Despite the guards’ lack of interest in the killing of those young men, a forensics man was sufficiently intrigued to make his own study.”

“On all the bodies?”

“Yes.”

“Why would he do that?”

“He’s writing a book.”

“And you know him…how?”

“He’s in our prayer group.”

“Of course.”

“Here’s what he found.”

The killer is male, early thirties. A batchelor, only child. Very high IQ. A craftsman. Drives a van that’s been refitted. As a child, he’d have killed or tortured animals. Learnt early to cover himself. Growing up, he’d have had minor skirmishes with the law but learn from each mistake. At some stage, he’d have attempted a serious assault on another male. You meet him, he’s polite, speaks well, educated but he feels nothing. He’s simply not there. Remorse is alien to him. His characteristics are grandiosity and hidden hostility. The psychiatric heading is a narcissistic personality disorder and poor impulse control. Violence is inevitable. Sexual gratification comes with the first kill. He will then be unable to stop.