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the dictionary,
    looked up the definition, got
    “A stone at the head of a grave.”
    All my instincts screaming,
    “Throw it out……………. now !”
    Halloween was already gone, so I felt this was
    less
    trick or treat as more
    trick and threat.
    No coincidence that the clocks were due to go
    back to winter time and when that happened, it was
    a long time to the light.
    If the package was meant to unnerve me
    it did.
    I felt the urge to get the hell out of there, be among
    people. Put on my all-weather Garda coat and, in
    the side pocket, the Walther PPK I’d had since the
    time of the devil. Just the weight of it eased my
    growing paranoia. Once outside, I felt better—not
    great but getting there. What I needed was a large
    Jameson but maybe some caffeine would be wiser
    first.
    I turned left at Nun’s Island, moved along to the
    low bridge close to the Samaritans, stole a furtive
    glance at Mill Street, the Garda headquarters, a
    pang,
    “never to belong there no more.”
    Muttered,
    “Get a grip.”
    Turned left again and across O’Brien’s Bridge.
    Saint Patrick’s school looming large and off-white.
    In my time, the teachers were mostly Patrician
    Brothers. They wore a green sash like a belt and
    were very fond of the reed cane. They could lash
    with impunity and did. At least once a week I
    staggered home, my legs bruised and battered,
    welts clearly visible on the bare skin. No one
    questioned their authority. They walloped the
    bejaysus out of you, it was simply the norm.
    It wasn’t that they were always right, simply that a
    cowed populace never thought to ask if they might
    be wrong.
    All has changed, utterly. Corporal punishment is
    illegal. And in a ferocious, ironic turnaround, the
    teachers were now the ones being bullied.
    I had replaced their reeds of punishment with a
    whole new way of lacerating myself.
    Called it Jameson.
    Stood there for a moment, thinking,
    “If I continued to dig the hole, I was going to need
    the headstone sooner than expected.”

    Always do sober what you said
    you’d do drunk.
    That will keep your mouth shut.
    —Irish proverb
    I walked down Quay Street, stepped into Café Du
    Journal. Real Irish place, right?
    I half hoped I’d run into Vinny from Charlie
    Byrne’s Bookshop but, no, the place was half
    empty. I got a corner table, old cop habit, so you
    can see who’s coming at you. Ordered a double
    espresso, a large Danish. I had no appetite but
    figured it would soak up the inevitable Jay. The
    sugar rush wouldn’t hurt either. Far end of the café
    was a Goth girl. I’ve always had a soft spot for
    them. They are harmless, do their gig, despite
    ridicule, and carry a continuous torch for The
    Cure.
    I admire tenacity.
    The girl, beneath the white makeup, the black eye
    shadow, black lipstick, couldn’t have been more
    than nineteen. She was staring right back at me.
    She was pretty, in a sort of wounded way; even the
    Goth stuff couldn’t quite hide that. Her eyes, a
    deep brown, were boring into mine, so I asked,
    “Help you with something?”
    She moved from her table, took the seat opposite
    me, and, when she spoke, I noticed the stud in her
    tongue. How do they eat with that?
    Maybe they don’t.
    She said,
    “You don’t know me.”
    Statement.
    I asked,
    “Any reason why I should?”
    Allowing a hint of force in there. If she was here to
    bust my balls, she’d chosen the right fucking day
    and the right fucking time to try it.
    Her accent was the new cultivated Irish that spoke
    of:
    money,
    education,
    confidence,
    and fuck you.
    As alien to me as a Brit.
    She said,
    “You put my brother in the mental hospital.”
    As lines go, it’s a showstopper.
    I asked.
    “What?”
    She took my spoon, asked,
    “May I?”
    Cut a corner of my Danish, said,
    “I like sweet things.”
    She’d thrown me. The only person I knew for sure
    I’d put in the home for the bewildered was my own
    self. Then,
    Jesus Christ.
    Years ago, a young man had been