Page 137 of Hang on St. Christopher

I hung up the phone.

Beth worried about me on my downtime. She worried that I would get bored having nothing to do twenty-four days out of the month; hence the hints about golf and reminders to go to the range and trips to Egypt...

I went to the range and shot paper targets.

Targets don’t shoot back at you.

But range time can often be clarifying.

“Beth. I’m sorry about this. I have one loose end to tie up. Have to go back to Ireland, but I’ll probably be back tonight, I promise,” I said making it sound casual.

The ferry to Belfast.

An easy passage over the chilled out Irish Sea.

The drive from Belfast to Newry.

Over the border yet again.

Through the Mourne Mountains to Dundalk.

The bowling club. No sign of our boy.

“Brendan’s not in today?”

“He is not,” a caretaker said.

“Where is he?”

“He’s at home.”

“It’s that big house on Point Road, yeah?”

“No he moved from there. On the Shore Road now, you can’t miss it.”

Brendan’s big house on the Shore Road. A big modern job overlooking the water. A red-brick castle with a turret at the back, and everything.

I parked the Beemer and took a deep breath.

Do you really want to do this?

I don’t know.

I walked up a gravel drive and rang the doorbell.

Brendan answered it.

“Saw you coming through the TV camera,” he said.

“Can I come in?”

“Sure. Follow me to the lounge.”

I went inside.

It was like a Ken Adam set from a late sixties Bond flick with maybe more high key spotlights. Brendan had a full bar off to one side, and the oversize speakers for his stereo setup might have given Ozzy Osbourne pause.

I sat on a white sofa next to a white rug over hardwood floors. Brendan handed me a bottle of Guinness Extra Stout and a bottle opener.

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