Joe   A bit of time must a’ passed. Time flies when you’re enjoying yourself.

My arse.

I tried to get going again at the robbing. It was hard, because I didn’t have me contact, obviously.

And, I tell you, the bottom’s fallen out a’ that business. Too many at it. There’s all sorts a’ lads in Dublin now, very nice lads, Russians, Romanians. I think there must be a college for robbing in them countries, because these lads, they’re professionals. It’s a crying shame, a Dublin man can’t hardly make a living at the robbing any more.

It’s a terrible thing when a traditional trade goes to the dogs like that, yeh?

I’m only joshing.

It’s just as fucking well.

Everything changes.

Anyway, I was feeling knackered a lot of the time.

I wasn’t always well, you see. Up and down, like a hooer’s knickers.

Me ma stuck by me till the day she died, heart failure, and I don’t know, the day I stood by her graveside I felt very cold in me bones, like I could feel something creeping up, something dark and bad.

And I was hoping to see the boys there but they didn’t come. And I don’t blame them really.

Then, sad to say, I got really sick. Pneumonia first. Then pleurisy. Then TB. Then some sort a’ cunting cancer. All off the ould virus, you know, courtesy of.

Which was sad.

But, you know.

I’m not looking for fucking sympathy.

No.

I don’t even fucking deserve sympathy, and a run-over dog in the street deserves sympathy.

Because – I’m the man that bate up Janet Brady. Mrs Brady, the younger.

My wife.

The fucking pride a’ Parnell Street.

Fuck it, and I did.

I said before I didn’t, but that’s fellas for you.

Fucking black liars, hah?

I’m sorry, I wasn’t sort a’ ready.

I’m ready now.

Yes, I hit her.

I smashed her lovely face in, I hit her till I heard bones breaking.

That was me, Joe Brady.

Macker to his ould ma.