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him off guard.
    Jimmy is walking along by St Stephen’s Green.
    He left Maria at the top of Grafton Street and while they didn’t make a specific arrangement to meet again, the understanding is that they’ll be in touch – once Maria has had a little time to think, and maybe consult a lawyer. Once he’s had time – not that this came up in conversation – to clear the decks with Phil Sweeney.
    He gets his phone out and looks at it.
    There’s no point in putting this off. Besides, things have changed. He’s on his own now, no longer a valuable asset working at a national newspaper …
    He finds the number.
    What has he got to lose?
    He brings the phone up to his ear, and waits.
    He glances over at the Shelbourne Hotel.
    ‘ Jimmy? ’
    ‘Phil. Hi. I hope I’m not calling too late.’
    ‘No, no, you’re grand. Thanks for getting back to me. I appreciate it. I wouldn’t want there to be a misunderstanding.’
    ‘Oh?’ Jimmy says, deciding to get straight into it. ‘Really? What’ll we call it then, an absence of understanding? Because you know what? I’m at a loss here. You call me up –’
    ‘I was just trying to help –’
    ‘How? By insulting me? And where did you hear about what I’m working on anyway?’
    There’s probably no straight answer Sweeney can give to this, at least not one Jimmy will find acceptable.
    ‘The flow of information,’ he says. ‘I pay attention to it.’
    ‘Oh please .’
    ‘Look, I often hear things I don’t necessarily ask about, things I maybe shouldn’t even be privy to. Whatever. It is what it is.’ He pauses. ‘So, did you have a think about what I said?’
    ‘Yeah, I did, and the thing is –’
    ‘No, Jimmy, there’s no thing. Just take it on board, OK? Please.’
    Jimmy stops in his tracks. A group of American tourists walk past him, one of them talking loudly, a big guy with a beard saying something about ‘this giant Ponzi scheme’.
    At the taxi rank to his left a young couple appear to be having an argument.
    ‘I told you, he’s from work .’
    Beyond them are lights, colours, a kaleidoscope, traffic stopping and starting.
    Jimmy turns, takes a few steps towards the railings of the Green.
    ‘For Christ’s sake, Phil,’ he says in a loud whisper, ‘you can’t just dangle something like this in my face, and not expect me to bite. I’m supposed to be a fucking journalist.’
    Sweeney exhales loudly.
    ‘It’s not like that,’ he says. ‘There’s no story here. It’s not –’
    ‘Susie Monaghan? No story? Her name on a magazine cover, let alone her picture , and you still get a huge spike in circulation, even after all this time, so don’t tell me –’
    ‘It’s not about her. Believe me.’
    Jimmy reaches out and takes a hold of one of the railings.
    ‘Then what is it about?’
    Sweeney clicks his tongue. ‘I know this is tricky for you,’ he says, ‘professionally, being told, being asked , to stay away from something, a story, it goes against the grain, I get that, but … the thing is, I’m good friends with Freddie Walker. Yeah?’ He pauses. ‘Ted Walker’s brother? And … they’re still suffering. Every time the story comes up, every time Susie Monaghan’s name gets mentioned, it brings the whole thing back, the tragedy, everything, and the prospect of a book, with all the publicity, the photos, dredging through the details again, and having it all be about her , with only a cursory mention of Ted and the others who died, it’s … well, frankly it’d be fucking torture for them.’ He pauses again. ‘So I’m asking you, Jimmy. As a favour. Give it a miss.’ He clears his throat. ‘And I certainly didn’t mean to insult you.’
    Jimmy squeezes the railings until his knuckles are white.
    Mother fucker .
    He didn’t see this coming.
    Black, white, headachy grey.
    ‘Freddie Walker?’ he says.
    This is a question, sort of, but they both know what the answer is. It’s a no-brainer. It’s Yeah, sonny Jim, back