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at it like rabbits at first, but the sex life cooled off a bit when he took a second job. Stress, man. It’s a killer. So she was thinking it must be something harmless, like a yeast infection.’
    His eyes shone as he spoke, that half-smile on his lips. Watching the way his whole body seemed to engage with the telling of the story provided as much amusement as the story itself.
    â€˜So she arrived into the waiting room, dreading the examination. She’d known the doctor since he gave her the BCG. Pure melt. But she told him the problem, and the doctor had a good poke around, and when he was finished he said, ‘Annie, do you have a regular sexual partner?’
    Jamey was getting so into the story now, bubbles of spit had begun to form around the corners of his mouth.
    â€˜When she said yes, he asked where this boyfriend could be found. She told him: “Park Road Funeral Home.” The doc nodded his head, as if that explained everything. And Annie said, “Doctor, what’s that louser given me?” And the doc just said, “You don’t need to know that right now.” But she insisted. “Whatever it is, I need to know,” she said. “I mean, is it terminal?” And the doc closed his eyes a second and said, “No, Annie. Not for you anyway.”’
    â€˜And?’ I said.
    â€˜Ah?’
    â€˜What did she have?’
    â€˜Maggots.’
    Â 
    My mother was scrubbing potatoes at the kitchen sink, placing the clean ones in a colander on the draining board. She scoured the skins and gouged out the eyes with a knife, then began to slice onions on a chopping board. When she sensed my presence, she turned, and her eyes were red and filled with water from the stinging onion juice. She wiped her face with the rolled-up sleeve of her cardigan.
    â€˜What’s for dinner?’ I said.
    â€˜Pig’s feet and hairy buttermilk.’
    She sounded tired. She filled the big saucepan to the halfway mark from the tap, hefted it onto the cooker with a grunt and wiped her hands on the tea towel.
    â€˜Saw you in town today,’ she said.
    Town. She always called Kilcody a town.
    â€˜You were knocking around with that young Corboy.’
    She turned, and her face looked drawn and puffy-eyed.
    â€˜You were smoking.’
    I didn’t reply, just stood radiating guilt. She pulled a chair out, sat at the table and plucked a Silk Cut Light from its packet. Her latest brand. Pregnant women’s fags, she called them. She tore off the filter and screwed it into the holder.
    â€˜These fecken things.’
    Here comes the sermon, I thought. The gospel according to Mrs Nagle, regarding the injurious effects of tobacco smoking. How it causes diseases of the vital organs, heartburn, nausea, belching, diarrhoea, shortness of breath, heart palpitations, oppression of the chest and back pain. How it can incur drowsiness, paralysis, unnatural sleep and bad dreams.
    But she didn’t say anything, just smoked the cigarette down to the writing while I waited, not knowing whether to go on up to my room or stay put.
    At last she squished the fag butt into the seashell on the table. She took a match and poked it into the holder, moving it clockwise. When she took the match out, the tip was smeared with what looked like black earwax.
    â€˜See that?’ she said. ‘That’s tar. Smoke enough fags, that’s what your lungs fill up with.’
    She placed the soiled match in the ashtray.
    â€˜They’ll kill you, son. Give ’em up while you can. Do you hear me talking to you?’
    â€˜Yeah.’
    â€˜Good. Go on.’
    I mounted the stairs.
    â€˜And son.’
    â€˜What?’
    She was staring off into middle distance, face unreadable, smoke around her head like some dissipating halo.
    â€˜Stay away from that Jamey Corboy.’
    Â 
    The last week of school, Jamey invited me around to his house to have a look at his books and maybe borrow a