Page 140 of Hang on St. Christopher

“No.”

“No, but you know people who would. Who would do it for you if you gave the word.”

“So what is it that you want?”

“I want your promise that you won’t come for me or for my child or for my wife. Especially not them.”

“And in return?”

“We leave each other be.”

Brendan thought about it.

He stared at the fireplace. The turf logs charcoaling white.

“It’s the fucking Tories. North and south. We’re playing into their hands. They want the working classes at one another’s throats because they know that if we’re ever united, it’ll be the fucking Tyburn gibbet for the lot of them.”

Brendan’s face was red and he was getting all worked up again.

“Do you have any kids?” I asked him.

“No. I had a son. Didn’t make it. Leukemia. This was a long time ago. It’s curable now. His type. Curable, but not then.”

“I’m very sorry to hear that.”

“Do you want another record? If you guess this one, I’ll be very impressed.”

He put on “Music, Maestro, Please” by Tommy Dorsey. It was obvious from the third bar. I pretended it was a hard one and only told him what it was at the end.

We had a third bottle of Guinness, and he walked me to the door.

“I won’t come after you,” Brendan said. “I had my chance and I blew it. Every dog has his day.”

“Who do you think’s been killing your people?” I asked him.

“I don’t know. But something tells me it’s not local.”

“Spooks?”

“Maybe. I thought you were off this case.”

“I am. I’ll get in trouble if I start nosing around.”

“Sean Duffy is born to trouble as the sparks fly upward,” he said, paraphrasing the book of Job.

He offered me his hand and I had no choice but to shake it.

Outside the house, I wiped my hand on the back of my trousers.

“Cop killer,” I muttered, and spat.

I drove to the Garda station and let them know I’d been by. They weren’t pleased to see me. Very few people on this island are pleased to see me. But these people were getting sick of my ugly mug around the place. Who was this high-handed RUC goon who kept coming into their parish to tell them their business and point them in the direction of a bad man?

An RUC goon who had gotten himself blown up on the wrong bloody side of the border, creating an international incident.

An RUC goon who had—according to the files—somehow fucked up a prosecution against a Finnish national that the Garda had arrested on a murder rap and transferred into this goon’s custody. I was a walking disaster area. And what’s more, I was a part-time, nearly retired burned-out walking disaster area. They were so annoyed with me in Dundalk Garda that I wasn’t even offered a cup of tea.

I got the message: See ya later, lads, on the other side of the river.

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