Emily was raising a frozen margarita to her lips, seated in the bar of the newest cocktail club off Shop Street. Time back, this had been a lap dancing club but the Church, with its dwindling power, managed to get the place closed. Cocktail bars weren’t really a Galway thing but some poor fool forever kept trying. The locals gave it, tops, a month before it shut. Meanwhile, it was thriving, if briefly.
Doc came storming in, dressed in what ex-army guys thought of as casual. Cords, topped off with the f****d worn wax jackets, like a royal who wandered off from a pheasant shoot.
Took him a minute to find his bearings. He looked like someone who’d stumbled into the wrong scene in the wrong movie. Then he saw her, glared, and marched over. She raised her glass in mock salute.
He plunged,
“
