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lunatic lost his dog?
    'You're fucking kidding, someone put you up to this, it's like some kind of lame joke.'
    He was shocked. His face registering hurt, he said, 'I love that little guy.'
    I shook my head, waved him away.
    He didn't go, continued, 'I'm a professor at the university and I represent the residents of Newcastle. Are you at all au fait with the area?'
    Au fait!
    And being a professor, like that was going to cut some ice with me. The last professor I
encountered had been a murdering bastard.
I near shouted, 'Yo, Prof, I'm from Galway, I
know where the bloody place is.'
    He ploughed on.
    'Five homes have had their dogs stolen. We heard you were good at finding things, and we'll pay you.'
    When I didn't leap at the opportunity, he added, 'And pay well.'
    The temptation to go Doggone was ferocious.
    I said, 'Leave it with me, I'll see what I
can do.'
    He straightened up. 'Thank you so much. It means an awful lot to us.'
    He was on his way when I said, 'They were wrong, what they told you about me.'
    His face brightened. 'That you had a sharp tongue?'
    'No, that I had a good heart.'

5
    Cross-eyed.
    Back in my apartment, I was preparing for my siesta. I had my own version of this deal:
try to get some food down, half a painkiller/
tranquillizer and sayonara suckers. Pulled on a long T-shirt with the logo THE JAMES DEANS , brushed my teeth and had a brief look at Sky News. Maybe the world had improved.
    It hadn't.
    The Republican Convention was taking place in New York. Christopher Hitchens had written that it was going to be a tight race and I believed him. Chechen rebels had seized a school and were threatening to kill three hundred kids if their fighters weren't released.
One of the little girls was dragged to safety and, I swear, she was the spit of Serena May.
Part of the whole mountain of guilt, remorse, was that every little girl reminded me of her.
How could they not?
    I switched off fast, swallowed the medication and waited for it to meld into the blood, muttering, 'God, I know you've fucked me good and probably for all time, but hey, cut me a bit of slack – no dreams of the child, or you know what? I'll drink again.'
    Yeah, threatening God, real smart idea, like He gave a toss in the first place. But what the hell.
    I added as a rider, 'Didn't I help a priest, doesn't that count?'
    Probably not.
    A knock on the door.
    'Fuck.'
    Could I risk ignoring it? Sleep was already creeping along my nerves. More knocking and I sighed, opened it.
    Ridge.
    She was in uniform, looking serious, intimidating.
    I said, 'I paid my television licence, officer.'
    She was not amused, but then, she rarely was. Our relationship was usually combative, aggressive, and however much we tried, we never could get free of each other. Before Cody had been shot, we'd reached a sort of warmth.
She was in a relationship and it appeared we might establish some sort of friendship.
    I'd saved her from a very vicious stalker and I knew how much she appreciated it, but she reacted with hostility to being indebted, and, God knows, no one understood this better than me. You help me out, I feel like I owe you, and till the sheet is clean I'm uneasy, jumpy, and what I know best is antagonism.
The terrible truth, and we both knew it, was we needed to be linked, were linked, and somewhere in all that mess we were both scared we'd lose each other.
    Is this fucked up? Sure. Or maybe it's just pure Irish.
    I often thought, if only she weren't gay, would there be something?
    If I wasn't an alcoholic. If . . . if . . . if.
    Back through the years, we'd helped each other more than anyone else. Then we'd reach a plateau of near intimacy and one or both of us would scuttle for cover. Wouldn't it break your heart. It certainly broke mine, and as for Ridge, a smashed heart was written on her face if you could get past the front.
    But the shooting had changed everything.
My bitterness was not going to bring back the vague thread of closeness we'd been