2

I enter the Long Hall on Georges Street fifteen minutes late. The pub seems different (memory tricks?). I remember the chandelier light being more harsh. Wasn’t the clientele more eclectic before? I recall men in wide-brimmed hats and elderly ladies with elaborate hairstyles. Tonight the crowd is youthful. There’s a solitary old man sitting at the bar. He wears shirt and tie under raincoat. He tries to chat to the youths who seek service. There’s no music playing, only a loud gargle of conversation, bustle with smiles, no ‘sorry mate’ as license to barge and jostle you.

I scan the packed bar for Hincy. Here’s the roguish smile, huge arms outstretched in a practiced pose. His suspicious slits expand to puppy-dog, young Elvis eyes as he recognises me. Normally he looks like a baddie in a movie, a bulky Ming the Merciless. The tanned, bald head, goatee beard and earring are as I remember them. His chest, arms and back have expanded into new territory.

An embrace, "Let me look at you," he says holding my shoulders at arms distance. His accent’s a bastard of Manchester and Dublin. "You're lookin' well Brother Lyons. And don’t say it, I know, I'm looking prosperous," he says patting his belly. We stand by the bar where his bulk has reserved a space. Our area is bordered by two partitions with brown tinted windows that turn people into shadows. It’s normally a service area, blue-shirted bar staff only, but tonight they’re only venturing out to collect glasses.

After the second pint I ask why he left his bouncing job. “Doing floors and kitchens was bringing in plenty of candy, so I didn’t need to be doing doors. Then there was this night back in December.” He brings up his right hand, palm open, c-shaped, like he’s working a potter’s wheel. “It was freezin’. Temple Bar was packed with office parties, everyone in town was locked and leery-eyed. We’d just thrown four lads out of the bar for hassling woman. They’d nearly kicked off but we’d got them outta there quick style. So we’re standing there freezin’ our holes off when Cullen, the boss man, comes down with these nice black jackets with “Cullen Security” on the back. “Here ya are lads, these will keep out the cold.” The boys were all there,” he gesticulates sidelong glances, nods of approval and extra air pumped into bouncer chests.

“About an hour later I hear screaming and glass braking inside. I leg in and Dangerous Dave’s already there, nice new jacket on, staring at this massive fucker…”
“Dangerous Dave?”
“Yeah, one of the lads on the door, fuckin’ useless. So Dave’s there, just gaping at this punter whose standing in the middle of three bodies, all out cold - one of them was our barman, Damien, lovely lad, from Coolock.” He pauses to swig from pint. “So this fucker’s standing there, fists down by his sides like a cowboy, about five feet ten but he must of been eighteen stone, totally solid – massive fuckin’ hands on ‘im - probably a bricky, a fuckin’ hole-digger or some ungodly profession.

“The eyes are popping out of his head and he’s roaring (he mimics an Irish country accent), ‘I’ll not leave here ‘till I have the man that bloodied me.’” I emit a low groan, empathising with the Hincy in the story. “So I’m like, ‘alrigh’, come on, it’s time to head out.’ But he just stands there, so I move forward to guide him towards the door. He grabs me arms and pulls - the new coat, not an hour worn, rips like fuckin’ paper. With no momentum he’d torn the sleeves clean off. So I nod to Dangerous Dave and go for it.” He tells of the Herculean digging match pouring out into Temple Bar - rolling on the ground with the man mountain while Dangerous Dave tells the crowd, ‘stay back now’. “And I’m shouting at Dangerous, ‘wha’ do ya mean, stay back, get in here, ya useless cunt ya.’

“I knew the fucker wasn’t going to stop and I was under pressure. But then Jujitsu John came in from nowhere and starts laying in with eye-pokes, shin-kicks and all that. Between us we dragged him down the road and then he saw the Guards comin’. He did one, but not before promising to come back to see us. There was a moment when I was rollin’ in the gutter of Temple Bar, the sleeves ripped off me jacket, a crowd of people watching, the beast roaring ‘I’ll not leave here ‘till I have the man that bloodied me’ and me trying to smack his head off the cobblestones. And I observed the scene from outside meself – do ya ever get that? And I said to meself ‘you’re a Dad, what the fuck is this about? Get up outta the piss.’ When it was all sorted I said ‘I’ve had enough of this’ and that was my last night.”

I throw back an anecdote, his left eye closes as he laughs, teeth whitened by dark skin juxtaposition. "Are you happy Sean?" He looks at me.
"Happy? Yeah I'm happy. My girls are my life. I’m lord of the manor. If it wasn't for Emma do you think I'd have a house and two cars? Would I fuck! I'd have pissed it against a wall. My daughters want for nothing. You wanna see the way they’re turning out though.” Gently, his head shakes from side to side. A thin layer of moisture appears on his eyes. “The little one’s mental. She went on a school trip to the zoo.” The moisture has evaporated, been willed back. “So I was like
- How was it?
- Fine.
(He does his daughter’s voice as clipped and super efficient.)
- Did you see the elephants?
- No.
- Why not? Where were they?
- Dead.
- Dead, really?
- Yeah.
- Oh dear. And the hippos?
- No, dead.
- The lions?
(His tone goes up on the second syllable suggesting surely not the poor aul lions?)
- No, all dead.
You want to have seen her, totally deadpan.” He chuckles like a tickled baby, one eye closes, little skin lines radiate out from eyeball. “She’s as mad as a brush….gets it form her mother.” I swear I think, with the couple of pints in me, that I can feel the warmth emanating from his chest.

“So, ‘are ya happy he says.’” He looks around for corroboration. “A man doesn’t ask such a question if he doesn’t want to be asked it back. Is something interfering with your contentment of mind or member Mr. Lyons?”
“No, no…I mean this business with me Ma has me freaked out but otherwise there’s not a bother on me.” He eyes me like I’ve just placed a large poker bet and it’s his turn to play. He leaves me silence to continue in. “My family is good Hincy. Sometimes I wish I wasn’t such a cunt with them…”
“There we go. You’re not a cunt, drop that shit.” He waves away my gilt with the right, the left finds his pocket. There’s a presence, a feeling within me that I push away, I can’t describe it better than that. “I’m not a cunt, but I act one sometimes. But I don’t want to get into all that. Life’s good, my family is wonderful. Missus and I are still smoothin’ out a few creases…it took six months of counseling to realise that we have issues.”
“Issues? No wait a minute. You come in here wearing that coat, a scissors not touched your hair in months and now you’re going to counseling? I think it’s time you came home Mr. Lyons.” Fuck, I hadn’t intended to mention the counseling; it’s from the other world, no place for that in the land where a pint automatically means a Guinness.

“The hair is due to lack of time rather than a fashion choice.“ He slowly nods assent. “As regards the counseling, yeah, we decided to go before we married. It made sense to smooth over any cracks early, while we still had the energy.” He turns his head the way aul boys gesticulate ‘howya’, then reaches for his pint. “I know what you must be thinking. When my missus first told me she’d been doing therapy for years I wondered what the fuck was wrong with her. Know thyself…as the fella says.” I wink to indicate that my sense of humour, at least, is not lost. We have some silence. An attractive girl with two stones to spare walks by, eyeing the big lad. He grins at me while shaking a bronzed finger - like when Ma didn’t want me to root in the neighbour’s cupboards while she drank their tea.
“So the both of you go there and tell all your personal shit to some tosser?”
“It’s a lady actually, but that’s pretty much it.”
“Sweetie would love it…but I don’t think it would be for me.” I visualise over-turned chairs, plants flying, the tissue box being forced down a therapist’s throat.

“How often do ya go?” I take out my tobacco pouch, its dermis covered in government warnings.
“Once a week. It’s helped.” I search for the sticky side of a paper.
“Each to his own.” A gulp each. He looks at me and giggles. We both watch a pint being pulled.
“So what’s the latest on your Ma?” I share the information I garnered form my brother – I tell him about Wayne - description, age, approximate address, local drinking haunt, general reputation.

“Two black bush, no ice please.”
“I’m not starting on the whiskey now Hincy, I’ll be floored in a couple of hours.”
“Don’t worry, we’re off now.”
“Off where?” I suspect he plans to visit some of his bouncer mates. This will mean conversation prohibited by shite music played too loud, Guinness of poor quality, English stags and hens, drinking until his mates finish up and then bestial drinking. “We’re grand here Hincy, fuck Temple Bar.”
“We’re off to take care of that bit of business.”
“Tonight?”
“Yeah, sweetie needs me to baby-sit tomorrow and I’m collecting her ma from the airport Sunday. Drink up.” He scoops up his keys, pockets them, downs the last third of his pint, pays for the whiskeys. My stomach curdles like I’m entering an important exam I haven’t prepared for. “But Hincy, I can’t be doing that tonight. I’ve had five pints already.”
“You don’t hear me complaining and I have to drive.”
“Nah man, I haven’t decided for definite to talk to him. I don’t want me Ma getting any more hassle…”
“So that’s why we go and have a word. You said he’s done a couple of houses on her street?” I nod. “Well we’ll say we’re representing the neighbourhood watch committee. He won’t know it’s to do with your Ma. We’ll tell him nicely that he can do what he wants, but not near, what is it, Brackenbush Road?” I shake my head, in my stomach the presence is back. “You’ve found out where he drinks, we’ll wait near his place. He won’t know who the fuck we are, we’ll have a nice chat and that will be that. Then you can go back to London knowing it’s sorted.” The whiskeys arrive, he holds his glass up for a toast, we clink glasses and I drink though I don’t want to.

An hour dribbles by, the flow of time constipated. I ask questions about wordings and tactics, Hincy gives short answers. Wayne Clark lives in Cooleven. A wall separates this council estate from the park that faces my mum’s house. He’ll return from the pub through a gap in that wall. Closing time was fifteen minutes ago. Hincy watches the gap through the rearview mirror of his Fiat Punto (his wife needed the other car tonight). Cars line the cul de sac, it had been difficult to find a space. Two of the cars live on bricks, free of wheels. A short bulbous woman in a vest comes out of her door. Arms folded, she looks up and down the street. Smoke issues from her elbow - her hand moves to her face and a red circle exists for an inhalation. She returns indoors.

To our left is the alley Wayne will walk up. We’ve been up there for reconnaissance. There was no one hanging around the empty bear cans and camp made of pallets and boards. Someone had written ‘fuck you mum‘ in black paint. A red ‘r’ had been added to ‘you’. I wondered if the author was correcting his own mistake? Or perhaps someone else turned his personal expression into general insult.

Hincy won’t let me smoke in the car. He gave up six months ago. I roll up cigarettes for later. I’ve done five already. Suddenly, an electronic jingling shatters the silence. It's coming from the entrance to the estate - an ice cream van tours midnight Ballybrack. Doors rattle open, hallway lights advance in rectangular columns against the darkness, illuminating garden paths and grass that needs cutting. Kids shoot out, adults saunter. The vest lady appears again, “don’t forget me Bensons, and I want change this time,” she calls after a darting mini skinhead. The crowd converges on Mr. Whippy. The odd ice cream appears amongst sweets and cigarettes. Kids are shouted for.

“We’re in the wrong business Hincy.”
“There’s no business like show business,” he says with a nod to the rearview. I turn around, “easy,” he adds. I look for signs that this isn’t Wayne. His nose is large, bottom half bending under the weight. ‘He’s a gonzo-snoze-havin'-motherfucker,’ to use my brother’s words. The freckles and skinhead are present, he's tall, thin and the collar on his rebook top turns upwards as described. I don’t have time to check for the gold jewelry but I know it's there. I dissolve and a moment later re-solidify into one cognition - I don’t want to do this. I recall my parachute jump coordinator shouting ‘go!’ and the bell ringing for my first round of boxing. “There’s too many people around for the icer,” I say, ”we’ll have to…”
“He’s not alone.” I turn again, there are two more. “Fuck it Hincy, this is gonna get messy.”
“Be cool Mr. Lyons, remember your Ma.” They walk past, a glint of streetlight reflects off Wayne's little finger, confirming the presence of jewelry. The three stop a few meters in front of the car. One of the faces is familiar, acne-marked, embedded frown, blonde spiky hair, but I can't place him. “Things are looking up,” says Hincy. After talking at the alley entrance the two acquaintances continue up the street while Wayne moves up the alley, alone. “Come on.”

I’ve doubted Hincy at times. How could one person have starred in so many stories? But now I see he isn’t fazed by the situation. My belief in him carries me through exiting the car and starting to walk. I move, but so does the contents of my body and mind. Everything is liquefied and swishing about. Wayne is ahead of us, shoulders alternating back and forth, head bobbing up and down.

“Here bud, ya just dropped this,” says Hincy holding up a twenty Euro note. Wayne turns, looks from Hincy’s face to hand. “Cheers man,” he says taking a step towards us before turning and darting away up the alley. I love running – chasing buses is my favorite – I suspect I look silly, knees raising too high, but I am fast – Wayne has just become the electric hare – without any thought I’m after him.

Within six strides I pass Hincy. Wayne’s is reaching the end of the alley so I kick at a trialing leg, sending him off balance. I grab his shoulders, spin and throw him back down the alley. He absorbs the force of my shove, stopping rapidly. He runs at me, not punching or kicking but jumping and hitting me with the force of his body - his hip into my chest - as I fall backwards I recall playing British Bulldogs in school. I hug his waist, sliding down until I trap his knees together. He manages to remain standing, peppering my head with punches. I have not been punched in several years. I hold on.

Then I feel him pull his legs back with tremendous force. I try to keep hold. “Let go of him son,” says Hincy. We’d agreed to call each other ‘son’ during this action to avoid a name slipping out. Hincy has him by the throat. Wayne’s face is turning puce. I release his knees, which limply drag behind the body. Hincy brings his client to the target site. I’m stabbed with sympathy for man who robbed my mother. I get to my feet and move to make sure things don’t get out of hand.

Hincy has him pinned to the wall, elbow in throat, still applying pressure. “My son, let’s let Mr. Clark breath a little.” I say. “I’m sure you’re not going to give us any more trouble are you Wayne?”
“I’m not Clark, my name’s…” I winch at the sickening stomach blow Hincy delivers. The air in Wayne’s lungs exists with a sigh, he drops to his knees. I step between them. “Alright, enough now. Look Wayne, we’re only here to deliver a message. We haven’t been instructed to do you over. It’s important that you listen…alrigh’?” I’m in character now, my accent has become thick Dublin. I’m breathing heavily. I glance at Hincy, he looks calm, he’s focusing on the whimpering pile.

”Are you listenin’ Wayne?“ I say lifting him by the elbows. I’m horrified to see tears meandering down his cheeks. I just want this to be over. “We represent the concerned residents of Brackenbush Road where you’ve been active recently.” He wipes his tears, looks at me blankly. “You’ve been robbin’ over in posh land…”
“I haven’t been robbin’ anywhere in years. I….”
“Son,” I say to Hincy, making to clear a path. Hincy begins moving and I step in to block the way. “Look Wayne. Let’s keep the pain to a minimum. No more robbing anywhere near Brackenbush. The next time could be very serious for you….” Voices in the alley - I turn - see Hincy turning - then a crushing pain as I receive a knee in the bollix. I bend and drop, braced for a follow up kick in the head. “Lads,” screams our captive. Hincy moves towards him, Wayne throws a punch. It looked like a light slap but Hincy recoils. Wayne’s two friends are pounding up the alley. “Get the big cunt,” he says pointing to Hincy. I then receive the kick I’d been braced for earlier. It catches me under the jaw – I’m knocked prone on my back.

I swim in disorientation, conscious only of the pain in my balls. Wayne’s got his knee on my chest, and I see a glint in his hand. There was no sound from the punch he hit Hincy. I turn. Blood is pulsing from my accomplice’s neck. His two hands are stemming the flow. The first of Wayne’s friends has jumped, using all his momentum, and punched Hincy in the back of the head. They are both upon him now. “Now Son.“ says Wayne, his knife held to my throat. “Now… let’s talk about fuckin’ pain.”

My life sometimes feels like an endless to-do list. Administration, tidying, DIY, cleaning, forgetting, packing up, washing up, shopping, nappy changes, going to work, going to daughter’s school, trying to get home early, arguing with wife over who’s more tired. There is the constant voice of fear and doubt to be listened to. Past and future bite and chafe, seeking attention. Relationships: calls to be made, resentments, discussions, reprisals, apologies.

The force of my anxiety engine combines with the love I feel for my wife, daughters, mother. All of me is centred on one object. My universe consists of a dim beam of light, ten centimeters long. “Don’t kill me...please...Jesus.” My left hand come ups, open palm, pleading, my submission complete. I can see the kicks and punches rain down on Hincy. He’s got one knee on the ground, the wall supporting him. “I’ve got money...in the car...three grand. It’s in the boot under the…” Always throw a surprise attack mid-sentence - I determined that myself in the old days.

I shoot two fingers of my left hand into his eye. My right hand comes up for the knife. I catch hold of the blade rather that the handle. I feel my palm and fingers slit open, the pain fires a breath into my chest. And then…I just freeze. Whatever made me attack him has run out. I have to consciously tighten my sphincter because a shit's escaping. Wayne had recoiled, his free hand shooting up to his eye, but he kept his weight on the knife. Now he’s recovering. My only physical involvement in the situation is to hold onto the blade, not let it move to cut deeper into my throat. Wayne takes his hand away from his face, forms a fist. He lifts himself up on his knees to bring his weight down behind the punch. He looks like Popeye. I stop counting after the third punch. Later the hitting stops, I assume he’s bored.

It takes several seconds to orientate myself. I turn to look for Hincy, who’s now laid out on the tarmac. One of his attackers is on the ground as well. I lift my head, realising the body is too slight to be Hincy’s. He’s standing! He has Wayne pinned to the wall again. Hincy's right fist rhythmically smashes into Wayne's face. 'Bang' as the punch hits his face, 'donk' as his recoiling head hits the wall. Wayne’s face is not recognisable, but it’s the sounds that urge me to vomit. Christ. I struggle to my feet. I can see Hincy and I rushing into court, suit jackets covering heads. I take wobbly steps, leaning back too far, sniffing blood through the back of my throat. I visualise the prison visits, my baby crying, my wife speaking: ‘I’m not bringing my children to this place again. Do you expect me to wait for you Rod?’

“Hincy!” He turns, eyes wide at my breach of naming protocol. “Come on!” I grab him. He hits Wayne another four punches before I peel him away. We move towards the car. Neighbors pull back curtains. Doors are opening. We race away at Punto pace. “Laurence’s” I say, “We’ve gotta get to Laurence’s”.
“Who the fuck is Laurence?” Hincy is shouting, holding the side of his neck. I direct him to St. Laurence’s, my old secondary school. We park in the darkness. “Let me see your neck,” I say.
“Neck, what the fuck do ya mean?” He pulls away his hand. A black line bisects his ear just above the lobe and runs onto his cheek. I check my throat with trepidation - it’s no worse than a shaving graze. My hand is badly cut. “Christ Hincy, we’re gonna go down for this.”
“Nobody’s goin’ anywhere,” he says, turning to rummage through toys and books on the backseat. He retrieves a packet of baby wipes, pulls out a line of them, bundles and puts them on his wound, “JAYSUS!”

“You’ve gotta get that cleaned up properly. That ear’s gonna need…”
“We’re going to Crumlin hospital, give me a fag.” He takes one of my pre-made rollups, lights it and passes it to me. I take a drag and then erupt from the car to vomit. He doesn’t follow me out. I’m grateful to be spared the embarrassment. “Things are going to be different now,” I say after easing myself back into the seat.
“No they won’t, nothings go9ing to be different. All we have to do is…”
“Not this stuff. Real stuff.” A peace has descended on me post puke. I look across the football pitch. “Things are going to be different with herself when I get home, starting with the washing up.”
“I’d like to have a speaking part in a really good movie,” says Hincy.
“For six months of counseling I’ve bitched about it. Me da never picked up a dishcloth. When he came home from work that was it – all he did was read the paper and complain about the dinner he was handed.”
“Not a gangster flick. Something decent.”
“But when I come home from work I ask ‘what do you want me to do?’ And she gets pissed off with that! She says ‘use your eyes.’ I’m willing to do what she hates doing, what she doesn’t feel like. I don’t have much time in the evening…” Hincy turns to look at me, his face blank apart from eyebrows sharpened into a triangle. He takes the cigarette from between my fingers, I hadn’t realised it survived my puke. He takes two drags, offers it to me, I shake for no and it sails out the window.

“And she gives out about the way I do t5eh dished – not that I don’t do them, but the way I do them. I work and still help out in the house and she gives out about my fucking method of washing the dishes…”
“WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT” he roars, I jump with fright, like when I’d awoken me da from a hungover sleep. “The dishes, doing the dishes,“ I reply in the tone of scolded child. He doesn’t apologise, but adjusts the rearview mirror to check his ear, dabbing the edges of the wound with a folded baby wipe.

“It’s just that we argued about it all the time. I clean the sink first, take the things through the water a few at a time.” I know I should stop talking but the sound keeps escaping from me. “There’s an order – glasses first - while the water’s still hot and ungreasy - pots and pans last.” Hincy cups his face in his hands, shakes his head twice. I wait for another scream. I choke back the feeling in my throat and behind my eyes. “She gets pissed off because everything’s around the countertop waiting its turn.” Through hands which shield him from shame he asks, “how does she do it then?” I’m buoyed by his question. “She steeps the lot in the sink first, overloads it. She puts the wash up liquid on the sponge and then makes high stacks of things that she rinses later.”
“Different strokes...”
“That’s what I thought. She couldn’t even allow me to do the fucking things the way I do them. Then it came out one night in counseling. ‘Your way takes fifteen minutes more than my way. We’re so busy. If you did it my way we could spend the time just sitting down together.’” I light another cigarette, my head vibrates as the smoke hits my stomach. I throw it away. “I’m ready to do the dishes her way. I’m ready to listen. I love her.”
“I wouldn’t have fuck all without my Sweetie,” says Hincy. “You’ve found your strong woman Rod, never let her go. Fuck resentment and fuck that guilt shit you’re so fond of carrying around. “
“I don’t think…”
“Shut up,” he says softly, almost lovingly, “I mean it now.” He looks away and only resumes when he’s sure I’m not going to speak. “It got so bad with me and Sweetie that I killed Eileen.”
“Who?”
“Eileen. She was sweetie’s cat. She thinks it ran away. I dropped a generator on it.”
“On purpose?” I ask. He nods.
“I fucked the body in a neighbours bin. Sweetie was heartbroken.”
“Why’d ya do it?” There’s a pause for fifteen seconds, maybe more.
“I didn’t like the way she talked to the barman in the Swan.” He turns the key and the engine responds. “Come on, let’s go get stitched.”
"I think I'm just..."
"Leave it there, Mr. Lyons - there's nothing more to be said." We leave the car park. I choke on words, hold them back like new years sales shoppers. My mind’s set to fast spin. I plan stories for the hospital, false names for us both. I wonder what I can tell my mother. Maybe I won’t have to tell my wife – perhaps the wounds will be sorted by the time I go home. Without the marks on my face I could create an accident to explain my hand. I despise lying. It makes life complicated. How can you relax with your love knowing things can be said inadvertently? My ribs and balls ache. I think of another puke but don't dare ask Hincy to pull the car over.

In the hospital they are too busy for my stories. Hincy barely speaks as we wait. I want to ask if he’s pissed with me, but I mirror his silence. I receive six stitches to my hand in a bright cubicle with a cornflower blue curtain around the bed. "I'll shop you to the immigration ya whore ya!" an old man roars, the slur directed at an Indian nurse who’s treating him. I get back to Hincy who’s bandaged around the head, a pad over his ear. He smiles, aware of his comic state. "Come on, I'll run ya home." The journey’s scored by the radio and features no dialogue. Outside my Mothers', the palm tree’s an outline against grey pebble dashing. "Peace in your household Mr. Lyons, take care of those cuts." I nod.

"I'll call you when I get back to London..."
"Let me call you, it's going to be hot around mine for a few weeks. I don't want you accidentally fuckin' up my story with Sweetie." He stares forward, down the empty road. I wanted to relieve myself with analysis, to talk, to fill the gulf with words. He’s in another place so I get out of the car. I quietly open the metal gate, go to the door, turn and see the car hasn't moved, no lights on, no engine started. He’s just sitting there. I walk back to his door, "you alrighjt?" I mouth, the sound muted. He nods, maintaining his forward vigil. I know not to say anymore.

I take comfort from his presence, lean against the car, look in the same direction. Beyond that wall the fiasco occurred. I light the last of my pre-rolled cigarettes. My stomach cramps as I think of my wife. Mum will be fine, she's lived through worse and she'll accept what I tell her. But my wife has not lived this. She is above it, unable to relate to it. I throw down my cigarette end and stamp on it, a superfluous action as I’m outdoors. The engine starts, followed by headlight explosion. My comfort disappears with the darkness. He rolls down the window, "stay away from this sort of business, Mr. Lyons, there's more to you than this shit. You and Kealy are my boys, I always knew you were going places and it makes me proud to see you doin' it." I lean down to speak but he intercepts my attempt with a raised hand. "I can't talk more, I’m in bits. Just take care of your ladies Rod and keep following those dreams." He puts his hand out and we perform an ancient and insufficient ritual. I stand watching the red taillights disappear.