‘Not tonight,’ she shouted, grinning again and giving him a pitying squeeze on the arm before stepping off.

Arm watched her go. He thought, that’s another story.

Arm left Quillinan’s near two, and figured a walk would help wick away the worst of the hangover that was bearing down on his tomorrow. He started for the outskirts of town, out along the quay road. The road stuck more or less parallel to the path that the Mule River cut towards the coast a couple of miles further on. Arm’s intention was to get as far as the strand a mile out then loop back around, a nice three-quarter hour jaunt. Arm had his music in as he walked. After a while he saw a body ahead of him. Arm slowed his tread, recognising the sedimentary rinse of silver through the hair, the scarecrow elbows and bandy-legged lope. Fannigan, like Arm, was taking the scenic route home from whatever establishment he’d elected to get hammered in.

Arm popped out the headphones and stowed the buds inside his jacket, where they continued to palpitate against his chest. Eyes on the back of Fannigan’s head, he sped up, taking care to dampen his footfall. Fannigan was oblivious as Arm glided right into step beside him.

‘Well, soldier,’ Arm said.

Fannigan jumped, his entire frame bouncing like a rubber band. He stifled a cry and swung his gaze towards the river, twenty feet below. After a moment, his eyes dragged themselves back around to Arm, as they had to.

‘Jesus, Douglas lad, how are you?’ Fannigan croaked with as much composure as he could muster. He had matching black eyes, the sockets pulped and swollen, a band of ragged cotton dressing tacked over his nose.

Arm threw an arm across Fannigan’s shoulders and steered him into the riverside wall. Fannigan mumbled, ‘What—’ right as Arm flipped him. He went head first, spinning, sliding over mud, grass and stones. Arm looked both ways—no body or car in eyeshot—and hopped the wall. Quickly he slipped his sneakers from his feet and jammed them beneath a rock. Fannigan just lay there and watched, marsupial eyes blinking out of the dark; it did not occur to him to pick himself up and scramble, to try and run away.

‘Up,’ Arm said.

Arm could practically hear the laggard cranking of the sot’s brain as it tried to process what was happening. Obediently Fannigan got to his feet and began to pat himself down, which only succeeded in dabbling the wet muck further across his clothes. He was wearing a black Celtic rainjacket with luminous green trim, a sweatshirt, jeans and buckled boots.

‘What’s happening?’

‘Move,’ Arm said.

‘What?’ Fannigan said.

Arm rapped him on the forehead like knocking on a door and repeated his request.

‘Turn. Downstream.’ Arm jabbed Fannigan between his shoulderblades until he commenced moving. ‘The uncles got wind. I hope you knew they always would.’

Arm watched Fannigan’s shoulders go rigid then slacken. Fannigan shook his head, glanced back at Arm.