In my head, I was trying to remember the words to “Philosopher’s Stone”. Later, in my shitty bedsit, I’d attempt Marianne Faithful’s version of “Madame George”. Now that’s a torch song.

A shoulder knocked against me and I spilled my drink, went,

“What the fu…?”

Heard,

“Sorry, pal.”

Turned to look into Keegan’s face; sorry he wasn’t. His actual words carried the sense of “screw you”. He gave me the look, calculated, said,

“You’re a cop.”

“Not any more.”

“An Irish cop. Well, fuck me…the Garda Chikini.”

“Síochána.”

“You what?”

“The pronunciation, you have it arseways.”

For a horrible moment, I thought he was going to hug me. The thought danced round his eyes, faded, then,

“I love the Irish; well, some of the buggers anyway.”

“Why?”

He gave a huge laugh. Heads turned, then away. Everything about him shouted animal, redneck, ludrimawn. But the laugh, you could forgive him lots on that. Came from way down and was sprinkled with graft and pain. He said,

“I had a holiday in Galway once, it was the races, but I never saw one bloody horse.”

“I’m from Galway.”

“You’re having me on.”

No one claims to be from there; you either are or you aren’t. I knew I could shut down the whole deal right there and then, simply say,

“We don’t like the English.”

Maybe it was his laugh or the rum or even blame Brixton. I put out my hand, said,

“I’m Jack Taylor.”

He shook, said,

“Keegan.”

“Nothing else?”

“Unless you count Detective Sergeant.”

He whistled to a woman; she sashayed over. No amount of rum would ever call her pretty. What she oozed was sex, lashings of it. He put his hand on her arse, asked,