The boy is back in town. As the coach pulled into Galway, Thin Lizzie was loud in my head. One of the great solo blasts from Gary Moore. I saw them at their last gig in Dublin. I had pulled crowd duty for the biggest concert of the year. Phil Lynott, head to toe in black leather, coked to the gills. He stalked that stage like Rilke’s panther. He’d never stalk a stage again. Me neither. His premature death coincided with my own career crash. I’d been booted out of the guards for slapping a TD in the mouth. I’d never regretted that. Only wish I’d hit him harder. My dismissal led into a spiral of slow descent towards alcoholic hell. Settling in Galway, I’d become a half-assed private investigator, causing more havoc than the crimes I’d been investigating. Now I was bringing back from London a leather coat and a coke habit.

I would have come home sooner, but for the old Irish imperative of having to stay gone. At least look like you tried. I don’t know whom I was trying to impress. It had been a long time since I’d impressed a living soul, least of all myself. A near miracle had happened. My departure from Galway had been a sober one. It was such a revelation. To be clear in my mind and free from the habitual sickness was amazing. I could think without the need to swill booze at every opportunity. Reading books returned to being the pleasure it had once been. I truly believed I was about to start anew.

Now I was back to being what they call a conscious drinker. When I was conscious, I was drinking. A fellah I met on the Kilburn High Road had asked me if I was a social drinker. I’d said,