Page 141 of Hang on St. Christopher

CHAPTER23

KILLIAN’S INTEL

You know the old trope about the detective who solves the case but can’t solve his own life? You’ve seen that one a million times. So have I. Suicide and alcoholism in the RUC aren’t occupational hazards, they’re actual career pathways in the brochure they give you when you join: admin; forensic; community policeman; detective; riot squad; station drunk number 1; station drunk number 2; quiet guy who shoots himself and is missed; loud, annoying, wife-beating guy who shoots himself and is not missed.

Glad to be out of it.

Glad to be across the sheugh.

New world over here. Cold turkey on the ciggies. Down to a lunchtime drink and a couple in the evening. Still the occasional spliff, but trust me, it does more good than harm.

The night ferry.

My own bed.

Morning.

Daughter curled on the sofa in a gold-colored blanket. Pale, beautiful, wild-haired like an Irish princess in exile in a foreign court.

Soldiers and boiled eggs for her this morning. “These floppy bits of toast with butter all over them, these are called the soldiers.”

“I know that.”

“And the eggs. The boiled eggs. Do you know what they are?”

“They’re not anything. Its eggs and soldiers. The eggs are just eggs.”

“The floppy bits of toast are the soldiers, but the tough-looking hard-boiled eggs, now, they’re policemen. See how they’re all lining up together? There’s probably a riot about to happen. The soldiers will run, you’ll see, or panic, but the cops—the cops will stay calm and still.”

Emma listened politely to this and then picked up one of the silver teaspoons and cracked down in the middle of one of the eggs. She peeled off the excess skin and shell and dunked the soldier in the running mess.

“Looks like you’re enjoying it,” I said.

“Yeah.”

“As long as you don’t think hitting the policeman was the best bit.”

“No, Daddy, of course not!”

I dressed her and walked her to school.

Walked home along the cliffs. Thought of Dirk Bogarde walking along these very cliffs inHunted(1952), directed by Charles Crichton. Bogarde tries to escape his murder rap by fleeing to Ireland, just over the horizon.

Ireland lurked there in the mist.

I ignored it and walked home. Another day listening to records and staring out the window at the water. That’s what you did on off days: make breakfast, walk Emma to school, go for a walk, sit in the living room and watch the sea. Wait. Wait for what, exactly? Waiting is its own reward, say the Zen masters. “Why are we waiting?” chant the fans on the Liverpool Kop.

Fingers reaching for the telephone dial.

Crabbie’s home number.

“How do?”

“Sean, what about you?”

“How’s the farm?”

“It’s good. Milk subsidy went up by five pence.”

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