Page 31 of Dublin's Danger Dancer

He takes out a small eyeglass and presses it into his eye. He squints, taking the watch into his palm. He passes the watch under several lights. Once the parade of purple lights is complete, he looks up at me and says, “I can offer you twenty-five grand, cash now.”

“We both know it’s worth forty grand retail. I’ll accept nothing less than thirty.” I say.

“I’ll give you twenty-eight, or you can have your thirty if you fill out this origination slip.”

He holds the slip of paper to the glass.

I look around the small shop. It resembled something of a cell with no windows, no cameras visible, and it didn’t look like the hairy beast in front of me would be one to rat on his customers.

“I’ll take the twenty-eight under conditions of strict confidentiality,” I say.

He disappears behind the beaded curtain and returns with a plastic bag full of money. I was happy that the plastic bag wasn’t transparent. It was a thick, stiff matt plastic bag, the type expensive department stores gave you.

“Thanks.” I say quickly counting the bundles of purple €500 notes. “Have a good day.”

The bearded man doesn’t say anything. He merely returns behind his beaded curtain, which I still hear swishing as I close the whitewashed door behind me.

Radius, the human trafficking charity, was only two streets away. I take O’ Connell Street, Ireland’s most famous street and the widest street in Europe is bustling with people and double-decker buses jostling with taxis to pick up passengers. I walk under the huge pantheon style pillars of the post office headquarters that are still riddled with bullet holes from the 1916 Irish Revolution.

I turn onto Connaught Street. I open the letterbox of the charity, thankful that the money is in stacks small enough to push inside after I’m done. I ring the doorbell.

“Hello, how can I help you?” comes a sprightly, overenthusiastic voice that I assume belongs to an intern.

“Hi” I say, “I made a donation. I put it in your letterbox. I don’t know if it’s safe there. You should go down to get it.”

“Thank you so much, can I have your—?” I walk away just as I hear the word name.

Along with the €28,000 from the watch. I added the €5000 Liam had given me for a new dress, so I donated €33,000. And in this city, I couldn’t leave it sitting in the letterbox.

The petrichor smell alerts me to rain. A grey cloud hovers in the distance and to my surprise, the blue skies open and I’m pelted with soft rain. Why I ever left the house without an umbrella was a mystery to me. Misplaced hope. The rain sinks into my clothes and peppers my hands with water beads.

I had another stop to make. I needed to drop off the hairs I’d plucked from the pillow Liam slept on. Ferg and I had a dead drop zone, which we used to exchange evidence. I walk around the looming grey spires of St Patrick’s cathedral and into the hill of the park past an eclectic array of flowers in full bloom.

I look around and then position the small plastic Ziploc bag containing Liam’s DNA between the wood and metal canister of the bin.

I pull out my phone and dial Ferg.

“It’s there.” I say.

“Thanks,” He says. “Your fur should be at your place.”

“Thanks,” I say hanging up.

The rain let up and I decide to walk. I stop at St Mary’s, this time only entering the cemetery. How could I explain being pleasured by her killer.

I walk down a gravel path passing elaborately decorated graves, one with a series of colourful plastic child windmills. I look at the dates. Jimmy O’Callaghan had only been nine years old when he died.

The grave next to his has a horse on it made of brown straw. It belongs to Jimmy’s mother. An accomplished equestrian rider, the tombstone says. Both graves bear the same death date. Car accident, I think, shuddering.

I reach Harriet’s grave. My aunt in Cork had paid for the headstone that read very simply: Harriet Ahern, beloved daughter, sister and niece, born August 2 1979 died July 7 2002.

“Hi Harry,” I say. “Sorry I haven’t been in a while.” I rub the top of her tombstone as if it’s her head I’m rubbing. It’s smooth and cold and heavy, just like the grief.

“I did light a candle for you last week. But I don’t like speaking to you on the day.” I pause. “well you know. “For the first time in twenty years, I’ve made progress. I might actually be able to put the man who murdered you behind bars.” I look down at her grave. The grass surrounding it weaves in the wind. I’d pulled up all the grass from her grave, so it didn’t become overgrown and unkept when I was away. I replaced it with small purple crystal stones encased in a low graphite fence.

I take a seat on the grass next to her so I’m sitting between her and her neighbour, an elderly woman called Cynthia who had died aged ninety-nine.

How cruel it was that some of us enjoyed long lives, like blissful afternoon naps followed by a cheese toast, and some of us were just a flash in the pan, barely browned. Turned out way before our time.

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