“God bless you, sir, thank you for your trouble. May Mary His Mother mind all belong to you.”

Like that. Warmth articulated. I was coked enough and feeling no pain. Began to wander among the tombstones and there it was.

Tommy Kennedy

Librarian

1938-1989

Jesus, perilously close to the age I was now. I don’t believe in omens, but coke does. I gave an involuntary shudder. Never heard Sweeper come up behind. He said,

“Jack.”

I jumped two feet. He nodded at the headstone, said,

“He was a friend to my people.”

“To me, too.”

“The best go first.”

“More’s the Irish pity.”

He gave me a look of near total compassion. That’s not a guy thing. We don’t show that stuff. I didn’t even want to hazard a guess as to what he thought of me. He said,

“There’s a bit of a do at the hotel.”

“Thanks, I’ll be there.”

“I know you will, Jack.”

And he was gone. I put my trembling hand on Tommy’s stone. Few men had ever shown as much kindness or taught me as much. I’d gone off to Templemore for guard training and forgotten all about him. To my eternal shame, he was dead for two years before I heard. God might forgive me, it’s the business He’s in. I won’t. The presiding priest was my old nemesis, Fr Malachy. He was a friend of my mother’s and loathed me. He smoked Major cigarettes, which had a brief fame when Robbie Coltrane smoked them in Cracker. True coffin nails, stronger than poitín and twice as lethal. He’d aged badly, but what smoker hasn’t? Malachy approached me, said,

“You’re back.”

“True.”

“I’d kill for a cig.”

“You quit?”

“Good heavens, no, I left them in the vestry. The altar boys will steal them.”

I offered the soft red pack. He gave me the look.