I didn’t, said,

“Sure.”

Outside, Sweeper said,

“I’ve a van.”

“Me, too.”

It was a Ford Transit, beaten to a pulp. When he saw my reluctance, he said,

“The engine is hyped.”

Slid the door and threw my bag in. The white suited singer from my homecoming approached, asked,

“Price of a cup of tea, sir?”

Handed him the CD. He asked,

“What the fuck is this?”

“New material.”

I was arrested my first night in Hidden Valley. They came for me at eight, rousing me from a power nap. I’d fallen asleep by an open fire. Hidden Valley is a steep incline running from Prospect Hill to the Headford Road. A haven of rare quiet in a city gone ape. From the hill, you can see out over Lough Corrib, wish for children you never had. To the north is Boher-more. Round the corner is Woodquay and Roches Stores. The house was a modern two up, two down. And hallelujah, wood floors, stone fireplace. Fully furnished with heavy Swedish chairs and sofa. Even the bookcase was full. Sweeper said,

“The fridges and deep freeze are stocked. There’s drink in the cupboard.”

“You were expecting me?”

“Mr Taylor, we’re always expecting someone.”

“What can I say? Let me get you a drink?”

“No, I must be away.”

I’d once come across a letter written by Williams Burroughs to Allen Ginsberg.

I was first arrested when I beached, a balsa raft suspected to have floated up from Peru with a young boy and a toothbrush. (I travel light, only the essentials.) One night, after shooting six ampoules of dolophine, the ex-captain found me sitting stark naked in the hall on the toilet seat (which I had wrenched from its mooring) playing in a bucket of water and singing “Deep in the Heart of Texas ”.

I looked round my new home and thought, I’ve beached pretty well. I had a long bath, put my clothes away and rummaged about. The coal bunker was out back, and I got a fire going. Intended to sit for a few minutes, drifted off. Banging on the door pulled me awake. Wiping sleep from my eyes, I fumbled to the door, opened it and said,