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Back Trespasses Save as PDF
Chapters (44)
  1. COVER
  2. HALF-TITLE PAGE
  3. BY THE SAME AUTHOR
  4. DEDICATION PAGE
  5. TITLE PAGE
  6. 2015
  7. THE IRISH FOR NO
  8. 1
  9. 2
  10. 3
  11. 4
  12. 5
  13. 6
  14. DÚIL
  15. 7
  16. 8
  17. 9
  18. 10
  19. 11
  20. 12
  21. CHIAROSCURO
  22. 13
  23. 14
  24. 15
  25. 16
  26. 17
  27. 18
  28. IN CALVARY’S FLOW
  29. 19
  30. 20
  31. 21
  32. 22
  33. 23
  34. 24
  35. WHEN I MOVE TO THE SKY
  36. 25
  37. 26
  38. 27
  39. 28
  40. 29
  41. 30
  42. 2015
  43. ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
  44. A NOTE ON THE AUTHOR

You brought him up. I’m just trying to make conversation.

Gina regarded her for a moment then looked back at the television. Cushla would have to be careful.

Rumpole had a son who was about to leave for America. He was so preoccupied with the case they only got to say goodbye briefly, at lunch. They were awkward with each other, the son churlish, defensive. Rumpole had not been a good father.

Rumpole’s wife was alone in the house, drinking. He went home to find her pacing the floor, as if she wanted a row, but she poured herself another drink and put a meal in front of him. They ate without speaking. At the end he said to her, Who am I, exactly?

Who am I? thought Cushla.

8

8

She was passing the longest hoarding in the UK, according to the papers. Messages flashed by. USE THE CONFIDENTIAL TELEPHONE NUMBER … IF YOU’RE SUSPICIOUS DIAL 999 … DON’T LET THE BOMBER GET YOUR CAR … DON’T LET CHILDREN PLAY WITH TOY GUNS …, the final ellipsis leaving endless possibilities. DON’T FALL FOR A MARRIED PROD TWICE YOUR AGE … DON’T AGREE TO SEE HIM EVERY SINGLE TIME IT SUITS HIM …

Michael had phoned just before seven, as Cushla was finishing Gina’s traditional Good Friday collation of a fish-finger sandwich soggy with melted butter and malt vinegar. He was at dinner and would be at the flat by ten. Come and see me, he said. As ‘yes’ came out of her mouth, she had felt a first twinge of resentment. He would never give her more than this. For her there would just be liaisons arranged an hour or two in advance, couplings in lay-bys, evenings at his friends’ house under unconvincing pretexts. When her thoughts flitted – briefly – to his wife, the guilt at what she was doing to her did not take. The image Cushla had of her rival was protean. Visualising her was like playing with one of the cardboard dress-up kits the girls brought to school sometimes. There was a flourishing selection of imperfections from which she could draw when her conscience pricked. A complexion like grapefruit or a scouring of broken veins. A wheedling voice or earlobes made freakishly long by heavy jewellery. It took little to summon these visions; the simple fact that this woman was keeping Michael from her was enough.