Right, and taking the blame for fucking shite you didn’t even do, Barney says to him. Shut your bake, Oddjob, Mack says, don’t start with that bollocks now. But McNulty continues as calm as you like. That too, he says, that too. Although I’d say we took the credit more than the blame. Fucking smart cunt, Barney says. We had our reasons at the time to believe that certain operations (that’s the phrase he used, certain operations) had been carried out by foot soldiers of the FSV when in fact they had been carried out by the brave boys of the IRA. Brave boys. He was pressing all the right buttons. The relevant fantasists have been dealt with, McNulty says. Certain operations, brave boys, relevant fantasists: that’s the story of my life, I’m thinking. Then I says to him: what about my ma? Are you going to bring my ma back to life? Am I supposed to work with the cunts what blew up my own ma?

*

Look: it’s all out in the open now, now that it’s all over, but I’ll tell you this, I never once felt like I was lying. I never once felt like I was doing anything other than honestly playing the role that was given to me. I says to myself, what’s true? What does that even mean, being true? Could you even fucking handle the truth? Are you really sure that’s what you want? Because what if the truth is a stinking pit filled with bodies? What if the truth is the blind pain at the centre of the world? What if the truth is the doubled crucifixion of a snake? Maybe it would be better for us all if we just played the game. I mean, Mad Frank Marby might be a fucking serial killer in private but he knew how to play the game. We all did. I don’t know who knew what back in that meeting or who was playing who, but the point was it was all about the playing itself, and we all knew it, was what.

*