48
A few days later, as I walked into the hotel, Mrs Bailey said,
“Mr Taylor, a letter for you.”
She never would, despite my pleas, call me Jack. I took the letter, a plain white envelope. Typed on the front was:
Jack Taylor
Baileys Hotel
Galway
I shoved it in my pocket and took the stairs to my room. A wreath was lying against my door. Yes, the ones you see on top of coffins. I picked it up, a chill along my spine. God, I needed a cigarette. Put my hand down to reach for them and remembered, no cigs. Opened my door, went in, stood lost for a moment, then moved to the window, pulled it up and flung the wreath into the yard. My mind was racing through answers. A practical joke? A mistake? But none brought ease. I sat on the bed and longed for the days I could have reached for the bot
