“Fair cop, guv; I’ll spill my guts.”

Sensed his hand raised, tensed as I waited for the wallop. It didn’t come. I shook another red loose, fired it up. He asked,

“What are you doing with the tinkers?”

“Tinker.”

“Don’t give me cheek. I’ll run your arse up to Mountjoy before you can scream barrister.”

“Oh, you mean Sweeper.”

Rage exploded from him. He went,

“He’s a blackguard.”

“I don’t think he’s fond of you either.”

He plonked himself on the edge of the table, his pants riding up. A white hairless leg was visible above his navy sock. He leaned right into my face. His breath stank of onions. He said,

“Listen to me, laddie. Stay away from that bunch.”

I ground out the cigarette, asked,

“You won’t be investigating the murders of four of their men?”

Spittle lit the corners of his mouth. He spat,

“Fecking tinkers, they’re always killing each other.”

He stood up, adjusted the tight tunic, said,

“Get out.”

“I’m free to go?”

“Watch your step, boyo.”

On my way to the door, I said,

“God bless.”

On release from Mill Street, I walked towards Shop Street. Radiohead’s Thom Yorke said,

Every day you think, well maybe, we should stop. Maybe there’s no point to this, because all the sounds you made, that made you happy, have been sucked of everything they meant. It’s a total headfuck.

I stood on the bridge for a few moments. Across the water, over near Claddagh, I could see Nimmo’s Pier. Sutton’s body had never been found. His paintings were now collectable. The French have a word for nightmare…cauchemar. Man, that is evocative. An alcoholic has dreams to rival that of any Vietnam vet. Closing your eyes you mutter, “Incoming”…and kidding you ain’t.