‘Emigrating? Why didn’t you tell me they were emigrating? Why didn’t she tell me?’

‘I can’t speak for her, my friend, but I only found out twenty minutes ago. She was going to leave when you were in the bar, but I told her it wouldn’t be right. That’s why I told her to dance with you. Now let’s get inside. I don’t know about you, but I could do with a drink.’

They walked past the spot were she’d stood and held him as they danced. The same place he thought she was holding on to him was in fact where she was letting him go. Harry ordered the drinks and Cormac thought of Pat Molloy from Tallaght all those years ago. Had he, like old Pat, merely danced with another man’s wife at the Burlington? He found a weary smile. Yes, Pat, Bernadette was definitely worth the beating!

28

He arrived back at the hotel at midnight. He staggered into the dirty little bar for a nightcap. He was frustrated and angry. The thrill of the events at The Chemist’s hostel and the effects of his last hit had now completely left him. He ordered a double vodka and looked around the room. An old school Dublin alcoholic stood in his familiar stupor at the end of the bar talking to an invisible friend. In a dimly lit alcove behind him sat a teenage junkie whore, with a greasy, well-dressed man who could have been her latest client, but judging by her scab ridden face, sticky hair and filthy grey tracksuit, was more likely her disappointed pimp. Not a U2 T-shirt in sight. No sign outside declaring the pub the Official Headquarters of U2 for the day. He used to like U2 a long time ago. Cormac was always more keen than him and Harry. What did Harry like again? Fucking Simple Minds - how appropriate for that gormless big cunt! He listened to U2 in the car with Cormac the night he’d been betrayed by him. The last night he spent with his old friend. On the way to the house, Cormac put the album on for him to listen to. They drove on their first operation together listening to the beginning of ‘Where the Streets Have No Name.’ Cormac kept rewinding it over and over again until they reached the house. There was no sign the cowardly bastard was going to ruin him at that point. Yeah, that put him off U2 all right. That and the constant spouting of Bono about things he knew fuck all about. He was already serving fifteen years in the Maze for doing his bit for Irish freedom when that cunt was in America pontificating about how sick he was of Irish Americans coming up to him and talking about the revolution back home. What had he said on stage? Oh yeah, ‘fuck the revolution.’ A fucking sound bite from a pop star preacher, who lived in his ivory tower in Dublin and fuck knows where else! Had he ever seen his father dragged out of his bed and beaten by the butt of a rifle in front of his screaming wife and kids? What the fuck did that pretentious cunt know about growing up in Killane or Belfast or Derry during the troubles? Fuck all, that’s what! He’d never been arrested for simply walking down the street and humiliated at Castlereagh for three days and nights.