Next morning, the hangover phoned it in.

The pills kicked ass. I vaguely remembered hitting some late-night clubs and, oh fuck, scoring some dodgy coke off an even dodgier dopehead. Getting home, I was wired and drunk, bad combo, watched TV.

I kid thee not, a documentary on teenage pajama girls. That went viral. The two girls, featured, wear pajamas, in and out, all day.

Smoke forty fags

Use the c-word incessantly

Drink strong cider

Search for any. . any kind of drugs

And were both

Fourteen years old.

In deep shit at school

No job prospects

Worked at being hard

As in

“Hey c. . what’cha looking at? Want yer head kicked in?”

And yet, maybe it was the Jameson, they seemed to possess a sweetness that they fought like little bees to hide.

This was Ireland’s youth.

And I do recall wanting to weep.

Oh.

And swearing off

The drink.

Stewart had always tried to rein in the worst excesses of Jack’s temper. Jack was so. . extreme. Truly believed that the courts gave out the law, and alleys dispensed justice. He favored the latter, with a hurley. Over the years, Stewart had been part of some horrendous violence but never, Jesus, God forbid, gratuitous, and fuck no, never got a kick out of it. He was beginning to suspect, albeit reluctantly, that there was a part of Jack that relished acting outside the law.

And, whisper it,

. . liked the rush.

He’d seen the light, a dullness become radiant, as he lashed into some thug. More, he seemed now to seek out the cases where it would end in a purity of bloodletting.

With Zen, his martial arts iron training, stepped up, he was trying to purge his own self of the charisma of violence. The dark thrill of control, meting out punishment. But the last twenty-four hours had shaken him. He loved Ridge.

No question.

They’d shared a house on the last case, seen the horrors up close and personal, and together shared the bond of futile attempts to redeem Jack. Only Stewart’s feelings for his dead sister even came close to the elusive love he swore he didn’t need. Prison had scorched granite into his being, had to, to survive. Found that same shell vital for an entrepreneur.

Dragon’s Den?

He rented them the fucking den.

Sources, the fuel of information, were key. Lots of minor characters, like those in a novel, chorusing the narrative, spurring the impetus, never less than essential. Bit players in the clubs, pubs, street of Galway.

And, oh, they loved to talk.

Tell a story.

Any story.

And sometimes, the truth was in there, just a wee bit tangled. As in the late call to his mobile last night. The voice saying,

“Brennan, father of the brat who stole the statue of Our Lady, he’s the one who fucked up Ridge.”

Click.

The line went dead. Google search. Brennan, a beaut. Thug city

In a suit.

If a good one, Louis Copeland no less.

Brennan had come quietly from Dublin, smartly avoiding the roundup of the original psycho drug dealers.

The General

John Gilligan

The Monk

And had kept under the radar as those larger-than-life scumbags went national, prompting

Movies

TV documentaries

Countless tabloid fodder.

With the creation of CAB, the special unit to nail those guys on their illegal assets, Brennan had fled to the west, gradually seeping into the Galway geography like vile limestone. His only son, the statue stealer, was a grave disappointment to the would-be Irish drug lord. Built an empire of dirt and dope, and had an eejit heir.

Seemed karma right.

Brennan, in his sixties, still a formidable physical presence and, like Jack, favored a hurley for his ad hoc boardroom meetings. Rumored to have recently taken out a rival dealer with two mighty wallops to the guy’s head, shouting,

“Come on the Dubs.”

Didn’t make him any more appealing despite his support of the capital’s team. In the few available photos from Google, he looked like Gerard Depardieu without the Gallic charm. An eye for the ladies, was said to be proud of his fuck pad. A penthouse over the Bridge Mills. What his wife thought was not recorded. But going on Brennan’s reputable temper, she wasn’t likely to be saying a whole bunch.

Beating women seemed to be a hobby. Ridge, asking questions, especially about his worthless son, would have been like an automatic trigger. Stewart had three tasks Zen-appropriated this day.

His sister

The Galway Advertiser

Brennan.

Did the second by phone, rang, asked for Kernan Andrews.

Said,

“Kernan, am leaving a batch of photos, notes about a number of recent Galway deaths in the office for you.”

Heard,

“What?”

Hung up.

Next, went to Going Dutch, the best florists in the city, bought a dozen white roses.

Walked to the Bohermore cemetery.

A huge monument to a young tinker was visible from the road. Locals wondered how the mega tribute, adorned in Connemara marble, could be affordable to the travelers. At night, it was fluorescent, sending a beacon of dazzling light across the nearby hill. Had converted many heavy drinkers who believed they’d had a portent direct from the Lord Himself.

To reach his sister’s resting place, he had to walk by a long line of young men, who’d committed suicide in the previous few years. Their families had laid

Football sweaters

Football boots

CDs

Little fluffy toys

Intricate scrolled tablets of love.

Making the graves more like the boys’ bedrooms than graves. It appalled and moved Stewart in equal measure. He reached his sister, stood, the tears threatening, bent, tidied the loose clay. A passing old woman, paused, offered,

“Sorry for your trouble.”

He muttered,

“Thank you.”

Not with too much warmth, though he appreciated the words. This was his sister’s time. Needed to visit in quiet. Sensing something, she asked,

“Your wife?”

“My sister.”

The woman stared at the stone, saw the dates, then said,

“Ah, sure, the bed of heaven, a leanbh.”

That pierced his heart anew.

11

Galway: An irony-free zone?

— Stewart

Stewart stood outside the Bridge Mills, lots of people around. A voice in his head telling him,

“Leave it alone, this is not the way to get Brennan.”

Weighed that.

Moved.

He was in the penthouse in five minutes, the burglar kit making entrance easy. He’d taken the precaution of wearing surgical gloves. The place was massive, testament to a guy with too much money and no taste. Gigantic TV, copies of

Autos

Penthouse

Hustler

Loaded

Ikea furniture; heavy cloud of blended weed, nicotine, curries, and empty pizza boxes. The bedroom had a walk-in closet, four Louis Copeland suits, twenty pairs of built-up shoes, tracksuits, and a set of weights. Under the mattress, a sawed-off shotgun, bags of coke. Enough to warrant a major bust. Stewart moved back to the front room, settled to wait.

He let his mind Zen-float, his body at ease, time suspended.

The apartment was dark when he heard keys in the front door. Didn’t move.

Brennan came storming in, lights going on, packages being strewn on the floor. He was making a drink near the window when he realized he wasn’t alone. Spun round, going,

“The fuck?”

Stewart continued to sit, stared at him. Brennan was dressed in a sweaty tracksuit, gym clothes, a white towel round his neck. Stewart stood, did a loosening exercise, asked,

“Why did you attack Ridge?”

Brennan was regaining his composure, his eyes darting to the bedroom, assessing how much of a threat there was. His expression answered,