40
I went upstairs, took off the torn shirt. Examined it in the vague hope of salvage, but it was beyond help. Slung it in the bin. The phone went. I picked it up, said,
“Yes?”
“Jack…it’s Bríd…Bríd Nic an Iomaire.”
“Ridge.”
Could hear her annoyance, then she said,
“I got the information you wanted.”
“On Kirsten?”
“Yes.”
“Good girl.”
“Don’t be so condescending.”
“Good woman?”
“I’ll be in McSwiggan’s at eight.”
Click.
I began to listen to the death notices. How f****d is that? Instead of my morning drugs, I’d listen for those. Mental abuse of a whole different calibre. A lot of the names had a ring of familiarity. I was in that age range where you no longer watch for the success of your friends; you await news of their demise.
Then,
“Bill Cassell:’
As I rushed to turn the vo
