“Is that Zen?”
He smiled, said,
“No, that’s hunger.”
The omelet was heaven, laced with a hint of a spice. She gasped,
“God, this is good.”
He said,
“And not a magic mushroom in the mix.”
Finished, they sat back, sipped the Darjeeling tea, and he told her about the new player, Mason, the official PI. She said she would run a background check, adding ruefully,
“If I’m still allowed to use the computer at work.”
Stewart wasn’t big on self-pity and asked about the attack on her.
He considered, moved into a lotus position on the chair, said, “First Malachy, then a handicapped man murdered, and now you. And one of your attackers referring to your sexual orientation.”
She asked,
“You think they’re connected?”
He wasn’t sure, said,
“Sometimes, you need Jack’s crazy view on things. He sees weird patterns that a normal person would miss.”
Ridge nearly smiled. Whatever else, Jack would never be condemned as normal. She asked,
“Where is he? Do you think he’s gone on one of those biblical benders?”
Stewart never replied instantly, took all the factors into account, then,
“A ferocious lash, no. He’s drinking, sure, but not in his usual blitzkrieg blaze. Laura, the American woman, is due soon and I sincerely believe he has feelings for her. I’m almost afraid to voice it but I think he’s close to happy.”
Ridge tried to envisage such a concept, said,
“Jack and happy in the same sentence?”
Stewart didn’t reply to this, moved like a cat from the chair, offering more tea, and Ridge confided,
“One of my greatest fears is going to his apartment and finding he’s choked on his own vomit.”
Stewart stopped in mid-stride. He’d imagined that very scenario more times than he’d ever admit.
Torture should be inflicted as though completely disinterested.
No more than a procedure to be carried through to its brutal conclusion.
– Ex-freedom fighter [sic]
I cringe when I think how easy they took me. Am I ashamed.
You betcha.
Mortified, in fact. Worse, it made me vulnerable, the worst sensation in the world when all you’ve got to protect yerself is…yerself. Thing is, I’d been busy, oh fuck, like a banshee on a mission. Flush on my result from Loyola’s housekeeper, I’d nicked the photo of the cottage and muttered inanities about later visits. She seemed bewildered. Not my problem, least not then. I headed for Monroe’s at the end of Dominick Street. Huge place with the great asset of quiet corners. I ordered a Jay, Guinness black. Settled in to savor my triumph. I pulled the photo from the frame and bingo, all me ships coming in, the address was on the back.
Just outside Oughterard. I knew beyond a shadow of a tinker’s doubt he’d be there. The loving way the housekeeper had glanced at it, he was there. I drained the Jay in one burst of elation.
Told meself,
“You’ve still got the moves son.”
A hefty draft of the black and I was flying.
….in the face of God?
As the old people say.
I was as close to delighted as I’d been since Galway won three All Irelands in a row.
Glory days.
I was having me some now.
Muttered,
“I found him, Jesus wept, I did it, cracked the case. This meant a serious bonus from the lizard Gabriel and Laura was due real soon. I could afford to have the apartment professionally cleaned.” My mobile shrilled, I signaled to the barman for the same again, answered,
“Yeah?”
“Jack, it’s Stewart.”
“How’s it going buddy?”
Stopped him, then,
“You sound very… chipper.”
Chipper?
People actually used this outside British sitcoms?
I said,