Kevin turned his head against the wall to look at me. The cold air and the booze had left him rosy-cheeked and dreamy; shivering a little, with his snappy haircut all bedraggled, he looked like a kid on an old-fashioned Christmas card. “Yeah,” he said, on a sigh. “OK. Probably not. It doesn’t matter.”

I detached myself carefully from the wall, keeping a hand on it just in case, but my knees held. I said, “Jackie shouldn’t be wandering around on her own. Go find her.”

He blinked at me. “Are you going to . . . I mean, will you wait here for us, yeah? I’ll be back in a sec.”

“No.”

“Oh.” He looked undecided. “What about, like, tomorrow?”

“What about it?”

“Are you gonna be around?”

“I doubt it.”

“How about . . . you know. Like, ever?”

He looked so fucking young and lost, it killed me. I said, “Go find Jackie.”

I got my balance solid and started walking. After a few seconds I heard Kevin’s footsteps start up behind me, slowly, going the other way.

Chapter 8

8

I got a few hours’ kip in my car—I was way too polluted for any taxi driver to touch me, but nowhere near polluted enough to think that knocking on my ma’s door would be a good idea. I woke up with my mouth tasting like something had died nastily in there, to the kind of chilly, heavy morning where the damp soaks straight through your bones. It took me about twenty minutes to disentangle the crick in my neck.

The streets were shining wet and empty, bells ringing for early Mass and nobody much paying attention. I found a depressing café full of depressed Eastern Europeans and got myself a nutritious breakfast: soggy muffins, a handful of aspirin and a bucket of coffee. When I figured I was probably under the limit, I drove home, threw the clothes I’d been wearing since Friday morning into the washing machine, threw myself into a very hot shower and considered my next move.

This case was, as far as I was concerned, over with an O the size of O’Connell Statue. Scorcher could have it all to himself and welcome. He might be an annoying little gobshite at the best of times, but for once his obsession with winning was on my side: sooner or later he would get Rosie justice, if it was there to be got. He would even update me on any major developments—not necessarily for altruistic reasons, but I didn’t give a damn. In less than a day and a half, I had had enough of my family to last me another twenty-two years. That morning in the shower, I would have bet my soul to Satan that nothing in this world could drag me back into Faithful Place.