So, all things considered, it was going to take more than the ma crossing the river to Janet. It was going to take a miracle, says you. Oh, in fact, says you, it can’t be done. Everything gone too far over, and that’s that.

So that in some way – and I’m thinking on me feet here – lying down – I didn’t really deserve no favour off Janet, but, since I’d got out of the Joy, I thought, I better – make an effort like. Jesus, I know I sound feeble.

Anyhows, here was me plan.

Oh, Jesus, when I think of it, it was a terrible plan.

But terrible plans for terrible situations, you know?

And it was all I could think of.

You know that ould feeling at school when the teacher asks ya a question, and you answer some pile of horseshit, and he looks at you, and he asks you what in the name of fuck do you mean, and you say, it was all I could think of? That was the nature of me plan.

Me plan, oh Jesus me plan. It sounded so good when I was in me cell in the Joy, and not a lot of things sounds good in there. As a matter of fact, it was the second plan I had. The first plan was more straightforward. The first plan was to go down to the ’98 when I got out and kill the Afternoon Man, Dickie, even though he done me a lot of favours in the old days, and apart from being a murdering cunt wasn’t such a bad fella.

But the Afternoon Man wasn’t there, was he? Banged up with the other fucking loonies in Dundrum. The criminally insane, hah? They got that right. But howandever.

You know, a thing that always haunted me when Billy was killed was that we had to let him be buried on the parish, you know, up on the Angels’ Acre in Glasnevin cemetery. I mean, we didn’t have a shilling to put to a grave, no more than I will myself when I go. They can fucking throw me into the sea at Ringsend for all I care, and for all anyone might care. But a kid is a different thing, isn’t it?

Yeh, it is.

You want, when you’re so unlucky as to lose a kid, to have somewhere nice for him to lie, some nice plot of ground and a nice stone and bring the odd bunch of daffodils for him and all that the odd time, you know? You might say, well, the poor child is dead, and he won’t know no differ, but, Jaysus it isn’t for the dead that graveyards are made, it’s for the livin’ that does be left behind.

The dead maybe don’t remember nothing.

I hope not!