33
His accent was Dublin. I’d done enough duty there to know it. I said,
“Southside?”
“Yes…are you a Dub?”
“No.”
He mopped at his brow, said,
“It’s my first time in Galway.”
“How do you like it so far?”
He smiled, more due to the cure than anything else, said, “I’m Danny Flynn.”
“So…what did you do, Danny?”
A bewildered light in his eyes, he said,
“I don’t know. I came down for a stag night…in Quay Street…you know?”
“I know it.”
“Jeez, I’m forty-six, I’m too old for stag parties, too old for this.”
I brought out the sandwiches, said,
“Feel up to some food?”
“What you’ve got there…a shop? No thanks. I haven’t eaten for days. I remember going into Freeney’s. I can remember the name and then…zip. I’ve had blackouts before. You know what they are?”
“Oh, yeah. I’ve lost some ye
