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decaff, anything.
    Cholesterol heaven.
    A n d it was roasting.
    Thank fuck.
    The waitress, Cecily, I knew her all me life, said,
    'Jack, you look great.'
    An outright lie, but you'll take it.
    A n d she asked in that way that only an Irishwoman can,
    'Are you perished.''
    Y o u live a life like mine, mostly devoid of warmth, you
    truly recognize it when it greets you.
    As long as her type still walked and served the streets of
    Galway, I'd be able to get out of bed in the morning.
    She didn't ask what I'd like. Just brought me
    a scalding tea,
    hopping toast,
    two fried eggs,
    two fat sausages,
    fried mushrooms,
    one crisp rasher,
    and black pudding.
    Comfort food?
    Y o u fecking betcha.
    It blows the be-jaysus out of a hangover.
    W h a t it does to your arteries, ask the vegans.
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    THE DEVIL
    I had me mobile w i t h me, primed for what I hoped w o u l d
    not be terrible news from Stewart.
    I was halfway into this veritable feast of n o n - P C food
    when a w o m a n approached. I thought,
    ' O h , for fuck's sake.'
    Yeah, she led with the n o w predictable
    ' M r Taylor, I hate to interrupt,' etc.
    But the food had done its stuff and I was a little more
    affable, asked,
    ' H o w can I help?' Trying not to think of the previous
    w o m a n and her dead son.
    She sat, nervous, and began,
    'This is probably not your area of expertise.'
    I w o u l d dearly love to k n o w what was, but nodded.
    She continued,
    ' M y daughter, she's ten and has D o w n syndrome.'
    I blanked for a moment. Serena M a y going out that
    w i n d o w and all the horror that ensued. But I focused and
    said,
    'Yes?'
    'She attends ordinary school and is doing great.'
    'That's terrific, good for y o u and your daughter.'
    She bit her lip.
    A h fuck.
    I'm a hard arse. I w o r k at it. But that kills me. I asked,
    ' H e r name, your daughter?'
    She brightened, went,
    ' K e l l i . She's a wonder, loves school, studies like a n u n and
    is such a contented child.'
    79
    KEN BRUEN
    Like a nun.
    I kept me expression neutral and asked,
    'So, what's the problem?'
    N o w the sadness, in Irish the awful bronach.
    'A group of girls - all from the same family - torment her,
    take her lunch money, call her names, tear up her homework
    and call her a . . .'
    She had to pause but I had a horrible idea of what was
    coming.
    'Retard.'
    I took a deep breath, my chest congested, fury racing in
    me blood and said,
    'But the teachers, her dad, surely they can do something?'
    She began to weep.
    Fuck.
    A n d fuck all over again.
    D i d I need this?
    C o m e on.
    I'd been d o w n this ferocious road before and had screwed
    it up so badly.
    She said,
    'These girls, their family is very important, nobody wants
    to be on their wrong side. They can . . . er . . . make trouble
    for people. My husband, Sean, he's a good man but says he
    could lose his job, and that Kelli just needs to . . . toughen
    up.'
    I didn't k n o w what to say. Said,
    'I don't k n o w what to say.'
    She looked into my eyes, pleading, said,
    80
    THE DEVIL
    'People say you can do things that others can't.'
    Oh sweet Jesus.
    She quickly added,
    'They live in Salthill.' Then, 'Naturally! Their name is
    Sawyer and they think they are the bee's knees.'
    I wanted to tell her. Sorry, I can't help you, life is shite,
    this is how the world goes, yada yada.
    I couldn't.
    L i e d , said,
    'I'll get right on it.'
    A n d she grasped my hand, tears rolling d o w n her face,
    said,
    ' O h M r Taylor, thank you, thank y o u . '
    A n d then she was gone.
    The fuck was I doing.'
    L o r d knows, and cares less, I'd warrant.
    I looked out the window, thinking of Florida and other
    places I could/should have been. The snow was pelting
    d o w n and I wanted to stay there, have another cup of scald-
    ing tea, finish me rasher, not think of Serena M a y and D o w n
    syndrome.
    Cecily approached, asked,
    ' M o r e tea. Jack?'
    I said no, this was fine, and then on impulse asked
    her - she was an out and out Galwegian and thus a