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downfall , though he considered it, opted for the less dangerous '. . .
trouble.'
    I asked, 'You want to hear about my life
when I was sober, when I wasn't drinking, you want to know about the success that was?'
    He shifted his weight, suspecting this was not going to be pleasant.
    'If you wish to share.'
    I got right up in his face. He'd have backed off 'cept he was up against the death bed.
    I said, 'Yeah, I was sober, hadn't had a drink in months, and guess what? I got a little girl killed. Three years old, the most beautiful child you ever saw, a fucking dote, and there's me, not drinking, minding her, she goes out a top-floor window. And her parents, my best friends, how do you think they felt about me being sober then?'
    He didn't have a platitude but tried, 'Life is no bowl of cherries and sometimes terrible things happen. We must move on, not let events sour us.'
    I stopped, stared at him, near shouted, 'No bowl of fucking cherries? You're unbelievable.
If I ever run into the child's parents, I'll mention the goddamn cherries, I'm sure that will really ease their grief.'
    I was seething, had to move, so I eased up on the physical crowding I'd been doing, let him loose, and began to move out towards the nurses' station. He was following behind me.
    I said, 'Listen – you listening? – I'm going for a piss. You come in behind me and I'll kick you in the balls. That facing my anger? That real enough?'
    But these guys, you're talking to a granite wall. He looked like he was going to extend his arms, maybe embrace me, and that would have been such a mistake.
    He tried, 'Jack, Jack, I'm reaching out to you. Do you really want to keep making the same tragic choices?'
    Turning to go into the toilet, I asked, 'You familiar with Dudley Moore?'
    He sensed a trap, ventured, 'Erm, yes.'
    I looked round as if I was going to take him into my confidence, said, 'Dudley Moore was interviewing his great friend Peter Cook, asked him if he'd learned from his mistakes, and Cook replied, "Yes, absolutely, I can repeat them almost perfectly."'
    In the bathroom, a man trailing an IV was trying to have a pee. He looked at me and said, 'What a way for a grown man to end up.'
    I had no argument there.
    That encounter with the zealot was replaying in my mind as I strolled along Shop Street.
When I'd left my flat I'd been in a reasonable
state of mind, but this flashback was bringing me down and fast.
    Summer was definitely over. That peculiar light, unique to the West of Ireland, was flooding the street – it's a blend of brightness but always with that threat of rain, and it glistens like wet crystal even as it soothes you. The edge of darkness is creeping along the horizon and you get the feeling you'd better grab it while it lasts.
    Outside Eason's Bookshop, a group of Christians were singing a rock version of 'One Day At A Time'. They had the well-scrubbed faces of clean-living young people. A girl in her late teens detached herself from the group when she noticed my interest, pushed a batch of leaflets at me and said, 'Jesus loves you.'
    I don't know why but my mood was lifting: I
was en route to the pub, the light was giving its last burst of spectacular clarity. But she annoyed me and I snapped, 'How do you know?'
    Took her aback, but the training kicked in and she produced the requisite dead smile with a well-rehearsed slogan.
    'Through music, we are making Christianity better.'
    Same tired old shit with a shiny gloss. A few
days back I'd watched King of the Hill , an episode where Hank confronted a set of trendy born-agains. Their combination of evangelism and tattoos really pissed him off. I faced the girl now and used the line Hank had retaliated with.
    'You people aren't making Christianity better, you're making rock 'n' roll worse.'
    Didn't faze her. Using her index fingers she made the sign of the cross, like you would to ward off a vampire, and muttered some incantation.
I moved on, the sound of their singing like an