73
I don’t know the name of this pub. It’s new and some sort of awful techno is on the speakers. I’ve got a corner table and there’s a full glass of Jameson near my right hand, within spitting distance so to speak. An untouched pint of Guinness is shadowing it, standing point. I was in Garavan’s, was it yesterday? And when I came out, a group of school kids were messing on the street. One of them shouted “Hey, Johnny the limp!” I looked back and I swear one of them was the twin of Niall O’Shea, who leaped from the crane. I’m not too sure how long I was in Garavan’s, but I heard a man mention the sadness of the small white coffin and I had to get out.
The day before, I bought sixty Major in Holland’s. Mary spoke to me, but her words didn’t seem to make sense. In the shop beside the canal,
