9. Finally Facing My Waterloo (Road)

‘This is not the end of Sorcha Lalor.’

That’s what she tells Bryan Dobson. But she says it without any real – I don’t know – conviction, like one of those boy bands who get voted off The X Factor and they go, ‘This isn’t the end of whatever the fock Simon Cowell decided to call us when it was discovered that our previous band name represented a copyright infringement.’

In other words, she knows she’s toast.

Bryan Dobson goes, ‘I suppose it’s a huge question – and one that’s difficult to answer at this early stage – but what happened?’

That’s what everyone in the Ballsbridge Count Centre is wondering. And beyond these walls as well, I’m sure. The people weighed up my old man’s dodgy business dealings, his hypocrisy on the whole water issue, his attitude towards drink-driving and Gaelic football, his hatred of women drivers and people from Cork, and his threat to pull out of Europe – and they decided that yeah, no, he was the definitely the man for them.

They’re still counting in some, I don’t know, constituencies, but, according to Bryan Dobson, New Republic has emerged from the election as the biggest porty in the country with a projected fifty-two seats. Muirgheal topped the poll in Dublin Bay South. The old man topped the poll in Dún Laoghaire. Jesus Christ, they even won two seats in Cork, where the locals are now seeing the wall not as a means of keeping them in but as a means of keeping the rest of the country out. That was after the old man offered them a referendum on independence by 2019.

Bryan Dobson’s right. You do have to wonder, what the fock?

‘I’m still in shock,’ Sorcha goes, ‘like a lot of other people around the country. Tonight, I’ll go home and I’ll lick my wounds. And tomorrow, along with my advisors, we’ll begin the process of reflecting on why we failed to get our message across to the electorate.’

I notice Sorcha’s old man hovering nearby. Then next to him is Fionn, his head hung slightly to the left, a sad smile on his face, like he’s sad for her but proud of her at the same time? I know I’ll have to watch him. Sorcha is going to be very vulnerable now. If anyone’s going to take advantage of her, it’s going to be me.

I catch his eye and I mouth the words, ‘Your focking fault!’ and he ends up just giving me a filthy back – as does Sorcha’s old man.

Bryan Dobson goes, ‘Was it that you failed to get your message across to the electorate or was it simply that the electorate heard your message and didn’t think it was any good?’

She got twenty-seven votes, by the way, although it’s taken her about four hours to accept that basic fact. She asked for a recount, convinced that someone was going to find a big box of votes that they forgot to count and it’d turn out to contain five thousand votes for her and not just more for Muirgheal.

Sorcha goes, ‘Yes, I do have to accept the possibility that people heard what I had to say and rejected it.

‘But twenty-seven votes is a very poor showing!’ Bryan Dobson goes. He’s got the focking courage of CJ Stander.

Sorcha’s there, ‘Yes, I’m aware of the figures. But I think something far bigger happened today than me losing my deposit. Something dorker. Something more sinister.’

Bryan Dobson’s like, ‘What do you mean by that?’

I watch her straightening up. Her voice goes up in volume. ‘What I mean,’ she goes, ‘is that populism won. Pandering to the lowest common denominator, playing to people’s fears, exploiting people’s ignorance – those are the real victors today. We have entered a dangerous phase. I think people will discover very quickly that making the lives of Cork people or women drivers or GAA players more miserable won’t make their own lives any happier.’

‘And what about the future for Sorcha Lalor? Will you remain in politics?’

‘What I’m going to do tonight, Bryan, is go home and love my family a little bit more. And I would urge all of your viewers who are saddened by the hateful direction our country has taken to do the same as me. New Republic might be the biggest political porty in the country but they didn’t get the overall majority that they promised they would. Let’s not forget that more people voted against them than for them. So let’s keep reminding them of that. There are more of us than there are of you! Let’s love Cork people a little bit more tonight. Let’s love women drivers a little bit more tonight. Let’s love people who believe in water conservation a little bit more tonight. Whoever Chorles O’Carroll-Kelly decides is our next common enemy – let’s love them a little bit more, too. Let’s love each other more and let’s love each other horder.’

‘Will there be a hashtag?’

‘It’s too early to say, Bryan.’

She steps away from the camera. She hugs her old man. Then she hugs Fionn, who goes, ‘Your interview is already getting a lot of traction on Twitter. Love Horder is an instant hashtag. So is More Of Us Than You. I don’t think it’ll be long before they’re both trending.’

There’s no hug for me.

She goes, ‘There’s no point in winning the election on social media, Fionn. People didn’t come out and vote for me.’

I’m there, ‘Exactly, Fionn! You’ve got a lot of questions to answer – election agent, my focking hole!’

My old man arrives over with Muirgheal, Hennessy and Kennet in tow. He’s about to go on TV as well. Sorcha shakes his hand and goes, ‘Congratulations, Chorles,’ and she says the same thing to Muirgheal as well.

Muirgheal just goes, ‘Nice speech. Almost as funny as the one you made when you became Head Girl. I am of Mount Anville – come dance with me!’

I go, ‘Why don’t you fock off, Muirgheal, and leave her alone?’

Sorcha goes, ‘I’m well capable of fighting my own battles, Ross,’ and I’m wondering is she possibly regretting having sex with me the other day?

Some dude runs a microphone lead up the back of the old man’s shirt while he goes, ‘What was it in the end, Sorcha? Twenty votes?’

Oh, he’s full of himself.

She’s like, ‘It was actually twenty-seven.’

‘Of course,’ he goes, ‘I forgot the second recount!’ and he sort of, like, chuckles to himself.

Suddenly, the camera is focused on him and he’s going, ‘Yes, as you say, Bryan, a seismic day! People have rejected the failed political configurations of the past in favour of a new republic! Just a moment ago, I received a phone call of congratulations from An Taoiseach, Enda Kenny, who pointed out to me that, as the leader of the biggest political party in the country, I have been given a mandate to open discussions with interested parties to form a new coalition Government!’

Bryan Dobson goes, ‘New Republic was the big winner in this election – that was despite the revelation that you intend to bid for the tender to build a private prison in which water charge non-payers will be jailed.’

‘Well, Bryan, I’m just happy to see that the electorate is clever enough to realize that a man’s political life and his entrepreneurial life are two entirely separate entities! Now it’s time for the entire country to come together and heal the divisions of the past few months!’

Sorcha’s there, ‘I have to go – where’s Fionn?’ and I go to follow her.

I’m like, ‘I suppose if it’s any consolation, you losing means we’ll both have a lot more time to give to fix our marriage.’

But she totally ignores me and just walks off. And that’s when her old man suddenly steps between us.

He ends up doing the weirdest thing. He pushes something into my hands and it leaves me a little bit speechless, to be honest, because when I look at it, it’s, like, a photograph in a frame – a photograph of Sorcha and her grandmother, taken when Sorcha was a child, maybe seven or eight years old. The granny with her big grey Rihanna ’fro and Sorcha sitting on her lap, smiling into the camera.

I’m like, ‘Why are you giving me this?’

‘I’m not giving it to you,’ he goes, ‘I’m showing it to you. It was supposed to be a gift for Sorcha. For her desk in Leinster House. Turn it over.’

I do. On the back, there’s writing. It says, ‘Sorcha and Gran’ – 6 July, 1988,’ and then, underneath that, it’s like, ‘As a Christian, it’s my duty to vote for love over the alternative.’

I actually laugh. I probably shouldn’t, but I still do? I’m there, ‘That quote is total bullshit. You know that. She pretty much acknowledged that before she died.’

I hand it back to him.

‘Sorcha’s grandmother didn’t write those texts,’ he suddenly goes.

I freeze. I’m thinking, oh, shit.

I’m like, ‘What?’ hoping against hope that my face isn’t giving me away.

‘Those texts,’ he goes, ‘that came from her grandmother’s phone on the day she died. I told Sorcha – her grandmother didn’t write them.’

I’m there, ‘I genuinely don’t know what you’re shitting on about. Don’t care either. I’m out of here.’

He blocks my way. He’s like, ‘That wasn’t the way she spoke. I’m actually cool with the whole gay thing and He was the one who basically wanted to vote Yes. There’s only one person I know who talks like that, and that person is you.’

I’m there, ‘You’d want to get out more. Get on the Luas and open your focking ears.’

‘What was the other one? Oh, yes! I’m a major, major fan of his. You’re not exactly a master forger, are you?’

‘You’re only bulling because you know she’s going to take me back. You know I was with her on the day of the funeral – as in with with?’

‘You sent her text messages purporting to be from her grandmother, then you took advantage of her grief to get what you wanted.’

‘Is that why she’s suddenly blanking me? Because you’re filling her head with your bullshit?’

‘Do you know why I’m laughing? Because you’ve done it this time. This is the worst thing you’ve ever done to her.’

‘I’ve done worse. I’m not going to go into specifics because I don’t think it’ll help the situation. But I’ve done worse. Way worse.’

‘And when she finds out for sure, that’ll be the end of it. You won’t see her or your children ever again.’

He’s so full of shit.

I’m there, ‘You’ve no actual evidence of anything.’

‘Oh, I’ll get the evidence,’ he goes. ‘You see, this is what I do, Ross. And you’re about to find out just how good I am at it.’

The old man’s phone rings. I’m just, like, listening at the study door.

‘It’s Michael Martin,’ Hennessy goes – this is without even answering it. ‘Will I tell him to fuck off?’

The old man laughs. He’s there, ‘No, just let it ring out, Old Bean! Phone his people in a moment and tell them I’m meeting Enda Kenny! Then phone Enda Kenny’s people and tell them I’m with Michael Martin! Let’s keep them all guessing!’

‘On it,’ Hennessy goes.

‘Let them bloody well stew!’ the old man goes. ‘Enda’s saying he’s going to make it a precondition of talks that I offer the people a referendum on Ireland’s EU membership! A precondition indeed! Mister Twenty-Nine Seats!’

Hennessy laughs. He’s there, ‘Michael Martin said this morning that Fianna Fáil won’t go into Government with you unless you guarantee that the wall around Cork will be a soft border.’

‘What are we going to make it from? Polystyrene?’

They both crack their holes laughing. I suppose they can afford to?

I tip back upstairs and my phone rings. It ends up being Sorcha. I’m like, ‘Hey, how the hell are you? I see Love Horder has become, like, an actual thing – if elections were decided by Likes and Retweets, you’d have topped the poll.’

She asks me the question straight out. She goes, ‘Did you write those text messages using my grandmother’s phone?’

I’m there, ‘No.’

‘Because my dad thinks you did.’

‘Your old man is just terrified that we’re going to possibly get back together again. And I’ve made it easy for you – I’m admitting that – to always believe the worst of me.’

‘I shouldn’t have slept with you. It was a mistake.’

‘It didn’t sound like a mistake at the time. Jesus, the screams out of you.’

‘I mean it was an emotional day. And I wasn’t in the right frame of mind to make good choices. I’m still not. I’ve lost my grandmother and I’ve just lost an election.’

‘Then don’t decide anything for now. Give yourself a few weeks. See how you feel then.’

There’s, like, silence between us then.

She goes, ‘An invitation arrived today from the school. They’re having a ceremony to celebrate the opening of the new gender non-binary toilets. Eddie wants you to be there.’

I’m like, ‘Yeah, no, I wouldn’t miss it for the world.’

She hangs up. So now she’s confused. That’s still good news. Two weeks ago, she hated my basic guts. Now – having had sex with me – she doesn’t know whether she’s coming or going. That’s progress – although a psychotherapist would probably argue it was the opposite.

About half an hour later, I’m back in bed watching Shortland Street when I suddenly hear voices downstairs in the hall. It’s all, like, chummy laughter – big hellos and meaty handshakes and all the rest of it. And I could be wrong, but I’m pretty sure I hear a voice I recognize. I step out onto the landing and I have a listen. And I end up in just, like, shock.

It’s Fionn.

I’m thinking, what the fock is he doing here? Then I hear the old man go, ‘Have you played Portmarnock before?’

And Fionn’s there, ‘Er, no, never.’

‘Well, it’s a lovely course! Just keep an eye on Hennessy here! Turn your back on him for a moment and he’ll put a bloody well kink in your driver!’

‘That was an accident,’ Hennessy goes. ‘I’ve explained that many times.’

There’s more chummy laughter. Then out the front door they go.

I tip down the stairs and watch them through the living-room window. Kennet is loading three sets of clubs into the boot of the Merc. I’m thinking, what the fock is Fionn playing at?

He was always a sneaky focker. I remember when we were in Castlerock, there was a tradition, every January, that if you were named in the Leinster Schools Senior Cup squad, you burned all your schoolbooks in a bonfire at the back of the school. In our year, Fionn was the only one who kept his books – and he actually read them, the snake.

I consider texting Sorcha and telling her. Then I think, no, I’ll find out what he’s up to first.

So it’s, like, standing room only in the main assembly hall in Mount Anville. The room is full of children and their parents and it’s a massive, massive day in the history of the school. As Mister Wade points out at the stort of his speech, they’ve become the first primary school in Ireland to have bathroom facilities for non-binary genders.

‘Agender,’ he goes, listing them off, ‘Bigender, Gender Fluid, Gender Questioning, Transgender Male to Female and Transgender Female to Male. These are not just labels. Each represents someone’s gender identity as it differs from the gender identity they were assigned at birth. We here at Mount Anville are happy to provide an environment that wraps itself around the student and makes her, or him, or indeed they, feel safe, respected and valued.’

God, it’s taken its toll on the man, though. He looks like he’s aged about twenty years since Christmas.

‘We are very proud,’ he goes, ‘that the name of Mount Anville has become synonymous with advocacy on behalf of those whose voices might otherwise not be heard. Past pupils of the school include former President, Mary Robinson and former US Ambassador to the United Nations, Samantha Power – in addition to stars of stage and screen, such as Alison Doody.’

Sorcha, beside me, just shakes her head – I want to say – witheringly?

‘To that proud list of high-achieving alumnae,’ Mister Wade goes, ‘I am confident that we will one day be adding a new name, that of the young student who very bravely brought to the school’s attention a way in which we could make our genderqueer pupils –’

There’s all of a sudden muttering in the room. It’s the first time I notice that the atmos is less than happy-clappy. To create space for the new bathrooms, they had to get rid of the music room, and I’m slowly realizing that most of these parents aren’t here to celebrate. They’re here to complain.

‘It’s absolutely ridiculous,’ I hear one mother go – she’s very attractive as well. ‘My daughter was learning the clarinet. Now there’s nowhere for her to play.’

Mister Wade tries to rise above it – or at least his voice does, ‘– in which we could make our genderqueer pupils – and staff – feel secure and cherished within the school environment. Before he goes out into the corridor to cut the ribbon to officially open the new non-binary gender bathrooms, I want to invite Eddie Lalor up here to the stage to say a few words.’

Eddie stands up and walks to the stage. There’s only, like, a tiny smattering of applause – most of it coming from Sorcha, who’s also shouting, ‘You’re an advocate for justice, Eddie! And an advocate for change!’

A woman sitting behind us, out of the corner of her mouth, goes, ‘Do you hear her? Twenty-seven votes she got!’

As Eddie steps up onto the stage, there’s a sort of low hum – it’s the sound of South Dublin disapproving of something. Eddie reaches the lectern and just smiles. It’s funny because there’s actually a port of him that seems to enjoy the notoriety – another way in which he’s like me. If that was me up there, I’d probably be pulling up my shirt right now and giving them an eyeful of The Six.

Eddie goes, ‘I just wanted to say a huge thank you to Mister Wade, the other members of the teaching staff and the Board of Management of the school for agreeing to provide bathroom facilities for a whole group of people who have been hitherto marginalized.’

‘Hitherto marginalized?’ a man two rows ahead of me shouts. ‘I’ve never heard of anything so ridiculous in my life. What’s it going to cost to clean all these extra bathrooms?’

That gets everyone’s courage up.

‘Absolutely nothing,’ a woman at the back goes, ‘because they’ll never be used.’

The dude goes, ‘They’ll still have to be cleaned. You watch the fees go up next year. That’s where this is heading.’

Sorcha storts shouting at people, going, ‘Hear him out!’ meaning Eddie. ‘Let him speak!’

‘What I wanted to say,’ Eddie goes, ‘is that these bathrooms should represent only the base camp of our ambitions …’

Sorcha definitely helped him with the speech. I’ve heard her use that phrase before – when she was talking about separating our domestic rubbish and I innocently asked whether four wheelie bins was possibly overkill?

Eddie’s there, ‘I hope, in the coming weeks, that the school will see its way to providing bathroom facilities for other sexual and gender identities that remain lavatorially unrecognized.’

I notice Mister Wade turn to another teacher on the stage and go, ‘Other?’

Then some dude shouts out the question that seems to be on everyone’s lips? He’s like, ‘How many of these things are there?’

And that’s when Eddie launches into his list.

‘There’s Gransgender,’ he goes, ‘who are people who identify as the mother of one or either of their parents. There’s Francegender – people who identify as French even if they have not necessarily ever visited that country. And Hansgender is the German equivalent. There’s Standsgender – people who are asexual but choose to stand up when they go to the toilet. They just need a urinal, although we probably should put an actual bowl in there as well, as they can be fluid.’

‘She’s making these up!’ the clarinet woman shouts – the big ride.

Half the people in the room already have their phones out and they’re Googling like billyo.

‘She’s not making them up,’ one of the other mothers goes. ‘They all exist. Mostly in California – but they do exist.’

‘There’s Dodosexuals,’ Eddie goes, ‘whose sexuality has been extinct for generations. There’s Bohosexuals, who are only attracted to scruffy people who live for the orts, and Hobosexuals, who are only attracted to scruffy people who live on the streets. There’s Go-go-sexuals, who are only attracted to people who are assertive and dynamic, and Lolosexuals, who find the whole question of gender and sexuality to be laugh out loud funny.’

‘There’s quite a few of those in the room,’ the dude who pulled her up on the phrase ‘hitherto marginalized’ goes.

Eddie just fixes the man with a look and goes, ‘I have neither the time nor the crayons to explain the subject of gender identity to someone as ignorant as you.’

The entire room gasps as one. I’m always telling Sorcha that we should be keeping a book with all of Honor slash Eddie’s funniest quotes. He could bring a whole room to silence – which is actually what he’s just done, by the way.

Eddie continues. He’s there, ‘There’s Androgynes, who are of indeterminate gender. There’s Tannedrogynes, who are also of indeterminate gender but have a fantastic all-year-round colour. There’s Blandrogynes, who are of indeterminate gender but who like to dress down and wear a lot of pastels.’

‘But do they all need toilets?’ the clarinet woman goes. I actually think she looks like Romee Strijd.

Sorcha is straight on her feet. ‘Of course they need toilets! That’s the most offensive question I’ve ever heard!’

‘I mean do they all need individual toilets? Could some of them not, you know, double up?’

‘Double up? Oh my God, you are such a Fascist!’

‘Why am I a Fascist? Because I don’t believe the same things as you?’

‘You’re a Fascist because you support the oppression of minorities.’

‘And you’re a Fascist because you don’t believe in free speech.’

‘What you said wasn’t free speech. It was hate speech. Free speech comes with responsibilities.’

‘What, the responsibility to believe all the same things as you believe?’

Jesus, so much for loving each other horder.

Eddie, by the way, is still on the stage, listing off genders who need toilets.

‘There’s Hermaphrodites,’ Eddie goes, ‘who have male and female sexual organs; Germaphrodites, who have male and female sexual organs and an obsession with bodily cleanliness; and Permaphrodites, who have male and female sexual organs and big hair. There’s Drag Queens, Slag Queens, Skag Queens and Nag Queens.’

Some dude – again, another parent – stands up and goes, ‘This is classic attention-seeking behaviour. I’m Googling some of them on my phone. She’s not naming legitimate genders – she’s just naming roles that people choose to play.’

‘She happens to be a he,’ I suddenly go. I’m on my feet now? ‘My daughter is a boy and I would ask you to show him some respect.’

Eventually, Mister Wade steps over to the lectern and goes, ‘Eddie, look, as you know, we have shown ourselves to be more than willing to accommodate people of alternative genders. Can you just put a final number on this for us, please? How many toilets do you want?’

‘Sixty-four,’ Eddie goes. ‘And if you don’t provide them, then you’re a bigot.’

‘But we’ll have nowhere left to teach the children.’

Sorcha shouts, ‘It’s not where you teach children that matters. It’s what you teach them.’

There’s all of a sudden boos coming from the other parents and even the other kids. Someone shouts, ‘This is the kind of wishy-washy rubbish you were talking before the election. You saw where it got you.’

But Sorcha stands her ground. ‘You will provide these toilets – Eddie, give Mister Wade your list – or we will make a complaint to the Irish Human Rights and Equality Commission. And you can all account for your hate crimes in front of them.’

Eddie Hobbs says my old man is a dangerous lunatic. This is on the news while I’m driving out to Killiney to spend my weekly hour with the kids. He is urging Fianna Fáil and Fine Gael to come to a coalition arrangement, the dude on the radio says, to rescue Ireland from a dangerous Fascist who preaches intolerance and hatred and who threatens to lead Ireland into a century of isolationism and possibly even war. However, sources for both Fianna Fáil and Fine Gael said they considered their differences too great to ever contemplate a power-sharing arrangement.

I drive through the gates of Honalee and I pork next to Sorcha’s old man’s focking Flintstone cor. I kill the engine and I check myself out in the visor mirror. I look great, and I’m only stating that as a fact. I feel great as well? Things are definitely looking up for the Rossmeister. The issue of bathrooms for something-binary-whatever-the-phrase-is people has definitely brought me and Sorcha even closer together and it won’t be long until I’ve got my famous size tens back under the table where they belong.

Sorcha’s old man opens the door. He doesn’t make a big show of checking his watch like he usually does? That should be my first warning that today is going to be different. I step into the house, giving him a bit of a shoulder nudge, but only because he’s slow about moving out of my way. ‘Are the kids upstairs?’ I go.

He’s like, ‘No, they’re not. Sorcha’s mother has taken them to the library.’

I’m there, ‘The library? What the fock are you talking about? Saturday is my day of having access.’

‘We’re in my study,’ he goes – and he doesn’t say who we are? He just storts walking and expects me to follow him.

I do follow him. Into the study we go. Sorcha is sitting in an ormchair in the corner with a look of, like, confusion on her face. She goes, ‘Ross, my dad said he has proof – that you did send those texts. Is it true?’

I think the bigger question is what the fock are my children doing in a library? But I let it go. I’m there, ‘I already told you it wasn’t true.’

He walks around his desk and sits down behind it, leaving me standing.

In a calm voice, he goes, ‘Sorcha, how could your grandmother have sent those text messages at lunchtime if she died – according to the coroner – at eleven o’clock in the morning?’

‘Sometimes that happens with my phone,’ Sorcha goes, still wanting to give me the benefit of the doubt. ‘I sometimes text Erika and my phone says it’s sent but then it doesn’t actually send? Then later on, she’ll get, like, five messages from me all together.’

He opens his desk drawer. ‘I asked an old friend of mine to look at those messages,’ he goes. ‘He’s an expert in linguistics. I’ve used him over the years in court. I printed them out and asked him to compare them with the language used in this.’

He pulls out my Rugby Tactics Book and puts it down on the desk. I notice there’s, like, thirty or forty yellow Post-it notes sticking out of it.

I’m there, ‘I’ve had enough of this. Which library did she take them to? I want to rescue them from whatever damage is being done to their minds.’

He goes, ‘He read this from cover to cover, cross-referencing it with those text messages, looking for commonality between the two – recurring words and phrases, similarities in sentence construction, etcetera.’

‘You shouldn’t even have that book – never mind be passing it around to strangers.’

‘And he found a great many matches. On the subject of the marriage equality referendum, your grandmother is supposed to have said in her text: “There’s something that’s been bugging me and I need to get it off my chest.” And he writes, in relation to Declan Kidney –’

‘Declan Kidney is a dick.’

‘He writes, “There’s something that’s been bugging me. I need to get this off my chest.” ’

‘Yeah, those two things are hordly identical.’

‘Your grandmother supposedly wrote, “I’m a major, major fan of his and I think he definitely loves you. You won’t do any better.” And he writes, in respect of Ron Kearney –’

‘Rob Kearney. Get his focking name right – after everything he’s done for this country.’

‘He writes, “I’m a major, major fan of his. We won’t do any better.” And there are many, many more. His use of words and phrases like “hey”, “in terms of” and “basically”. He’s drawn up a report for me, in which he says he is one hundred percent certain that those text messages and this book of whatever-it’s-supposed-to-be were written by the same hand.’

He produces the report from the same drawer. It’s only about thirty pages long, but Sorcha’s old man has gone to the trouble of having it bound between leather covers. I pick it up and I flick through it. I pick out phrases like ‘same bad syntax’ and ‘identical grammatical errors’.

I can feel the weight of Sorcha staring at me, waiting for an explanation.

I’m realizing for the first time that I’m in genuine trouble here. But I also can’t help but be impressed by someone who can tell so much from so little. I remember once, Sean O’Brien showed me how he could tell the time by just staring at a field of cows – he was accurate to within five minutes. It’s why he’s never owned a watch. That was one of the most impressive feats I’d ever seen. This thing is definitely in the same league.

Sorcha’s there, ‘Ross, is it true what he’s saying?’ and I can hear that she’s on the verge of tears.

I go, ‘All this report proves is the square root of fock-all,’ and I throw it down on the desk. ‘Sorcha, how did I get into the house to send those text messages, if – as your old man seems to be implying – the old lady was dead?’

He’s there, ‘She kept a key in the flowerpot shaped like a boot. I expect you knew that.’

‘Such bullshit.’

‘One of her neighbours saw a car very similar to yours parked outside that lunchtime.’

‘Such, such bullshit.’

Sorcha goes, ‘Did she take the reg?’

The really sad thing is that she’s still hoping, against all the evidence, that I’m telling the truth. That’s how much she deep down loves me.

‘No,’ her old man goes, ‘she didn’t take the reg. But she recognized the model because her son has the same one.’

I look at Sorcha. There are tears rolling down both her cheeks. She’s there, ‘Ross, did you text me, pretending to be my grandmother?’

I’m like, ‘Sorcha, hand on hort, I never touched your grandmother’s phone. I wouldn’t even know what it looked like.’

Sorcha’s old man reaches into his drawer and pulls out another file, which he also drops onto the desk. He goes, ‘I asked an old friend – he has a private security firm – to check the phone for fingerprints. He found eight of your prints on the phone.’

I’m like, ‘What are you talking about, my prints? You don’t have my prints.’

‘Yes, I do. Do you remember I showed you the framed photograph of Sorcha and her grandmother?’

‘You sly focker.’

‘I told you – this is what I do. And I’m very good at it.’

I decide to change tack, thinking, yeah, no, I can still talk my way out of this.

‘What,’ I go, ‘you’re trying to tell me that no two people have the exact same fingerprints? Come on!’

Sorcha just, like, properly bursts into tears. Her old man walks around the desk, leans down and tries to comfort her.

‘Look,’ I go, deciding to finally come clean, ‘she rang me the day she died and she said she was going to tell you the truth – about what happened on the day of the marriage referendum. And she was going to tell you the truth about the scorf as well. So I called around to her and I found her – as you know – dead in the bed. And I thought, shit, she never got her final wish, which was to make a clean breast of things. That’s why I did it – I was honouring her final wish.’

Sorcha goes, ‘I wish I’d never heard the name O’Carroll-Kelly. Get out of this house, Ross. And get out of my life – and I mean, forever.’

Her old man is leaning over Sorcha, hugging her, while she cries uncontrollably. He looks over his shoulder at me. He goes, ‘I’m going to make you a promise. You will never see Sorcha, or your children, or the inside of this house, ever again.’

‘You did what?’ she goes.

Erika is just in, like, shock.

I’m there, ‘Hey, you’re no angel yourself, can I just remind you?’

She goes, ‘I’ve done some pretty shitty things in my life, Ross, but nothing like that.’

‘Her old man says I’m never going to see my kids again.’

‘He can’t stop you seeing your kids. Why don’t you talk to Hennessy?’

‘Yeah, no, I may have burned my bridges there.’

We’re on Baggot Street – in one of those burger joints that pretends to be Eddie Rocket’s but actually isn’t?

I’m there, ‘In my defence, I didn’t write anything that the woman wasn’t going to say to Sorcha herself.’

‘Ross,’ she goes, ‘you went into the woman’s home, you found her dead in the bed, then you sent a bunch of text messages from her phone, pretending to be her.’

‘I was honouring her final wishes.’

‘You didn’t even bother phoning an ambulance.’

‘What focking use was an ambulance to her? She was dead. Anyway, Sorcha’s old dear used to call in to see her everyday. I knew she’d find her.’

‘It’s seriously focked-up behaviour, Ross. And there’s no mystery where you get it from.’

‘Hey, he’s your father as well.’

‘I wasn’t talking about Chorles. I was actually talking about Fionnuala.’

I think about that while I remove the gherkin that I didn’t ask for from my hamburger and fock it over my shoulder onto the floor. Maybe I am like her.

I change the subject. ‘How’s Helen?’ I go.

Erika’s there, ‘She’s coping. She’s going away for a little while.’

‘What? I love Helen.’

‘She’s going to Adelaide to see her sister, Susan. She doesn’t know when she’s coming home.’

‘Because of him.’

‘She said she can’t watch it. The TV soap that he’s become.’

‘Some of us still have to live with him.’

‘Did you see what he tweeted this morning?’

‘I’ve given up reading them.’

‘He said his enemies would soon feel his wrath.’

‘Someone like him shouldn’t be on social media.’

‘He’s also threatening to build a wall around Eddie Hobbs.’

I laugh. ‘Now something like that,’ I go, ‘I would definitely vote for!’

She laughs as well, in fairness to her.

I find another piece of gherkin – this time in my mouth. I expressly said no focking gherkin. I fish it out from between my teeth. It goes on the floor as well.

Even though she’s breaking my balls, it’s still great catching up with her. She looks incredible and I’m mentioning it not to be a pervert but just to add a bit of background colour to the story. She’s wearing a tight black shirt that really shows off her hefties, especially when she leans forward to grab the salt, which I keep accidentally on purpose moving just out of her reach.

She goes, ‘Oisinn and Magnus are having their stag this weekend.’

She says it out of the blue.

I’m there, ‘A joint one.’

‘Yes, a joint one. Why do you keep moving things so I have to stretch for them? Do you want to just take a photograph of my chest, Ross?’

‘Not really.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes, I’m sure. Continue what you were saying. The stag.’

She can be hord work, but we get on a lot better than we used to.

‘They’re doing the first ever naked sky-dive over Roscommon and South Leitrim,’ she goes.

I laugh, then I just nod – sadly. I’m there, ‘I really wish I hadn’t opened my stupid mouth that day.’

She goes, ‘You really are a focking idiot, aren’t you, Ross?’

‘Thick. Absolutely thick. But I swear to you, Erika – even though I lie about pretty much everything – I was talking about soccer.’

‘So you keep saying.’

‘Erika, I feel shit about it. I genuinely do. You know how close me and Oisinn used to be. I miss him. I miss having him as my friend.’

She looks at me like she might possibly even believe me. Then behind us, a waitress slips on one of the pieces of gherkin I focked over my shoulder, and she hits the deck – her tray of food going everywhere.

I look down at her and ask her if we can have our bill.

Twenty minutes later, we’re walking up Waterloo Road. It’s a nice night, so I decide to just walk her home. Erika tells me about how well the gallery is going and I do the whole nodding along and pretending to be genuinely interested thing. I tell her about Ronan riding the bormaid at his engagement porty and how I’ve figured out that the urge to do the dirt is something that neither me, nor Ronan, nor my old man can do anything about, no more than we can change the colour of our eyes.

There’s a gang of six or seven dudes walking just ahead of us – same direction we’re going – and there’s, like, two dudes walking towards them. And that’s when it happens. Two goys from the gang give the two dudes who are passing them a serious shoulder nudge each.

I can tell straightaway that’s it not a rugby-related shoulder nudge. It’s not the kind that, say, Alan Quinlan would have given me back in the day if he saw me in Renords – one that says, ‘That’s what you get for constantly talking shit about Munster – but at the same time I’ve got massive, massive respect for you and everything you achieved in the game, albeit at just schools level.’

No, this is a different kind of shoulder nudge? There’s a real nastiness to it. They send these two poor dudes flying. Then one of them also gets a kick in the orse – for nothing, as far as I can see. And that’s when the dude who deals out the kick goes, ‘Faggots!’

Erika just freezes. She goes, ‘Let’s just cross over the road.’

But I’m like, ‘No, let’s not.’

‘Ross, don’t get involved.’

But I just totally ignore her. Maybe I’m remembering our conversation about Oisinn. Or maybe I’m thinking about my transgender son who’s going to grow up without a father all because Sorcha’s grandmother was – even though I hate to speak ill of the dead – a homophobic bitch.

Cross over the road? When has the Rossmeister ever crossed over the road?

‘Why don’t you leave them the fock alone?’ I hear myself suddenly go.

They all turn around at the exact same time and they look at me. They’re a lot younger than I thought they were – all about seventeen, maybe eighteen?

The dude who kicked the other dude up the orse and used the faggot word looks me up and down. He’s a big dude – obviously fancies himself as a bit of a weights freak. He goes, ‘What are you going to do about it?’

I’m there, ‘What I’m going to do about it is ask you to apologize to these two gay goys –’

‘Yeah,’ one of the two goys goes, ‘we’re not actually gay.’

I’m there, ‘And if you don’t apologize, I’m afraid I’m going to have to deck you.’

This dude laughs in my actual face. He goes, ‘Are you serious, old man?’

I’m like, ‘Yeah, I’m serious. I’m deadly serious,’ and that’s when it all ends up coming out. ‘There’s too much hatred going on at the moment. Hatred of gay people. Hatred of Cork people. Hatred of GAA players. Hatred of women drivers, even though they can be annoying. Hatred of women who just want to be properly represented in our theatres and produce work that’s challenging and – Jesus Christ – we can’t even let them do that. I’m listening to hatred for the last I-don’t-know-how-long. I was raised by it. And I’m sick of it. So I’m making a stand. Here on Waterloo Road. I’m saying you either apologize to these two gay dudes –’

‘I actually have a girlfriend,’ one of them goes.

‘– or you will be the subject of a decking.’

The big dude goes, ‘It looks like it’s going to have to be a decking then,’ and he beckons me with his two hands, the universal sign for okay, it’s on – it’s on like Lil Wayne’s bong.

I feel like I used to feel when I was about to throw myself into a ruck. There’s, like, a split-second of hesitation because you know there’s a chance you’re going to get seriously hurt here. But then you do it anyway because – utter fock-up though you are in almost every other respect – you’ve been brave all your life. I’ve never crossed over the road. It’s not in my nature to cross over the road.

I throw a punch. It’s a big punch as well. And that’s the last thing I remember.

Christ, my head. It actually feels like my brain is about to explode. And my eyelids are too heavy to even open. Then I get this familiar smell, which I recognize straightaway as Tom Ford Portofino.

‘Your perfume,’ I mumble. ‘Oh my God, it’s turning me on in a big-time way.’

I hear a man – I’m guessing a doctor – go, ‘Your brother is suffering from concussion.’

Then I hear Erika go, ‘Unfortunately, he’s not. He talks like that all the time. I’ve got his clothes here. We’ll go as soon as he opens his eyes.’

I open my eyes. I’m like, ‘Where am I? As in, what hospital?’

Erika is standing at the foot of my bed. She goes, ‘St Vincent’s.’

I’m there, ‘Public or private?’

I really am my mother’s son.

‘Neither,’ she goes. ‘You’re on a trolley in A&E.’

I’m there, ‘How long was I in a coma for?’

‘You weren’t in a coma, you idiot. You threw a punch and missed. You fell face-forward onto the kerb and you knocked yourself unconscious.’

‘Just tell me, did I stop those two dudes being gay-bashed?’

‘They weren’t gay, Ross.’

‘I just think it’s terrible that we live in a country where two men can’t be open about their feelings for each other.’

‘They were brothers. It was a rugby-related thing.’

‘Let’s just agree to differ.’

I close my eyes again.

Erika goes, ‘Don’t go to sleep. There’s someone here to see you.’

I open my eyes and for about thirty seconds I’m wondering am I actually in a coma and dreaming this?

‘Hey,’ he goes.

It’s Oisinn. And it’s also Magnus.

I’m like, ‘Hey yourself. What are you doing here?’

‘Erika rang me,’ Oisinn goes. ‘Told me what happened.’

‘I stopped a gay-bashing.’

‘She said it was just a bashing, Ross.’

‘I’m sticking by my assessment. One of them definitely looked gay. It was actually the one who said he had a girlfriend.’

‘Erika told us about your little speech.’

‘Don’t worry about that. It was just top-of-the-head stuff.’

There’s, like, silence for a good ten seconds. Then Magnus goes, ‘Erika shays she thinksh you are telling the truth when you shay you were talking about shoccer that night.’

I’m there, ‘Dude, I was talking about soccer. Oisinn, you know how much I despise that sport and the people who play it. I’d ban it in the morning.’

Oisinn just nods. He goes, ‘You have been consistent on that point.’

I’m like, ‘Dude, when have you ever heard me say anything bad about gay people in all the years we’ve known each other?’ and – oh, shit – that’s when the tears stort to come. ‘I love gay people. It’s just it’s so easy to cause offence these days without meaning to. There’s all these words and phrases that are, I don’t know, scattered around like focking landmines, waiting for you to stagger cluelessly up to them to blow you up. I’m not homophobic, Oisinn. I’m just a fockwit. I don’t give a shit if you like men, women or focking teapots, you’re my friend and I’d focking die for you … rugby, Oisinn … focking rugby.’

I’m crying. He’s crying. Magnus is crying. Even Erika is dabbing at her eyes. It’s a real captain’s speech. Oisinn hugs me. I hug Magnus. Everyone gets a hug. There ends up being a lot of healing in that Accident and Emergency room.

‘Sho,’ Magnus goes, ‘if you are sho open-minded as you shay, perhapsh shome time you would like to watch a shoccer match with me.’

And I’m like, ‘Don’t focking push it, Magnus! Seriously, don’t push it!’

We all have a good laugh at that as I throw on my clothes.

Oisinn goes, ‘So what are you doing this weekend?’

And I’m like, ‘Sorcha’s old man is going to the High Court to seek an order preventing me from ever having contact with my children again and my solicitor has washed his hands of the case. So it looks like not a lot.’

‘Fantastic,’ he goes, clapping his two hands together. ‘So you can come on the stag?’

And I’m like, ‘Dude, I wouldn’t miss it for the world.’

‘Why did they vote No?’ I go.

This is while I’m taking off my trousers and looking down on the countryside of Roscommon and South Leitrim.

‘I actually don’t think it’s bigotry,’ Oisinn goes, having to shout out over the noise of the airplane. ‘It’s just something that’s outside their realm of experience, that’s all. They’ve never been exposed to it before.’

‘Well,’ I go, ‘they’re going to get exposure today – indecent exposure!’

Everyone on board laughs.

I’d hesitate to use the phrase Gay Icon – that’s for others to say – but there’s no question that gay people have always liked me. And I’m totally cool with that, by the way?

‘They’re going to think God has sent them some kind of plague,’ one of Magnus’s friends shouts. ‘Except it’s not raining frogs or locusts – it’s raining men!’

Again, everyone laughs. I actually clap – that’s how funny I think it is? ‘Brilliant!’ I go. ‘Absolutely brilliant!’

It’s shaping up to be one memorable stag. We’re circling over Ballinamore – that’s according to the pilot.

‘Okay, lishen up,’ Magnus shouts, ‘in jusht a moment, I am going to hend out the parachutesh. If anyone ish having shecond thoughts, thish ish okay, you can shtay onboard and we will all meet up in Galway ash planned.’

No one is staying on the plane. Everyone is up for it. Gay, straight and whatever you’re having yourself. I take off my shirt, then suddenly – like the other forty-seven men on board – I’m standing there in just my jockeys, shivering with the cold. I’m checking out JP and noticing that he has a serious Ned Kelly on him. Fionn has the beginnings of one as well.

When did we all get old?

‘That’s yet another great thing about rugby,’ I go, handing Christian one last beer from the cooler. ‘You can stand around naked talking to other naked men and it’s not one bit weird. Not one bit weird at all.’

He laughs – he definitely seems to be over Muirgheal. ‘Ross,’ he goes, ‘you don’t have to keep mentioning how cool you are with “the gay thing” as you call it.’

I’m there, ‘Have I been doing that?’

‘Only about every thirty seconds since we took off. The best way to show you’re cool with it is to maybe stop making an issue of it all the time.’

‘Yeah, no, I’ll try and do that. It’s possibly just nerves. With the sky-diving thing, rather than the gay thing. Which I’m totally cool with. Fock, I’m doing it again.’

He changes the subject then. Totally out of the blue, he goes, ‘Me and Lauren are going to give it another go.’

I’m like, ‘What? I thought she was seeing some cinematographer called Loic who didn’t give a shit about rugby?’

‘It’s over. It’s been over for a long time.’

‘What, so she comes crawling back to you? What kind of a name is Loic anyway? Dude, you should definitely tell her to fock off.’

‘She’s moving home next weekend.’

‘Dude, you’re seriously taking her back?’

‘I miss her, Ross. I miss my kids.’

And that makes me feel suddenly worse about my own situation.

Then it turns out that JP is in the same boat as me. Or a similar boat. ‘Yeah, no,’ he goes, ‘on the subject of relationships, just to let you know that me and Chloe broke up.’

We’re all there, ‘No! That’s shit for you! Dude, I’m sorry!’

But he goes, ‘It’s fine. It was actually mutual. We just weren’t getting on. But we still want to be the best parents we can be for Isa.’

Him and Chloe had this pact for years that if they were both still single at thirty-whatever, they’d have a baby together. I was always a bit – as Frank Sinatra might say – shooby-dooby-dubious about it.

‘Living with someone is hord,’ he goes. ‘But it’s ten times horder if there’s no actual love.’

It’s still shit, though. It’s still shit.

I notice that Fionn is literally green in the face. I’d totally forgotten that he’s scared of heights. Or more specifically, he’s scared of falling from heights, which is what he’s about to voluntarily do – fair focks to him.

I’m like, ‘Are you going to be sick again?’

He just shakes his head.

I’m there, ‘Do you want a Jack Daniel’s or something – settle your stomach?’

He goes, ‘No, I’ll be okay … once I’m back … on the ground.’

He’s talking like that because he keeps getting the heaves.

I’m there, ‘So why were you playing golf with my old man last week? And Hennessy?’

He goes, ‘He offered me a job … as a special advisor …’

I’m there, ‘I thought you said he was a racist and a misogynist and loads of other different things?’

‘I didn’t say … yes … I’m thinking about it … I think I could maybe … do a good job, though … working from the inside … I could maybe temper … some of your old man’s … more extreme policies … he wants me … to conduct the pre-talks … with the other party leaders … the talks about talks … while he’s busy … attending your mother’s trial …’

‘Sorcha will have a focking conniption when she finds out.’

‘Like I said … I’m only … thinking about it …’

Magnus storts handing out the parachutes – basically backpacks with the Gaycation Ireland logo on them. I throw mine on. I’m there, ‘Can I just check again, Magnus, we pull this cord here and the chute should open, yeah?’

‘For everybody elsh,’ he goes, ‘yesh. But yoursh, Rosh, ish jusht a ruckshack wish rocksh in it!’

Everyone laughs. He’s joking. I’m pretty sure he’s joking.

‘Okay,’ he then shouts, ‘anybody shtill wearing any peesh of clothing, you musht loosh it now!’

So I whip off my boxers.

‘Not an issue,’ I go. ‘Not an issue at all.’

Someone opens the door of the plane and suddenly it’s nearly impossible to hear anything. It’s all hand gestures now. Magnus beckons us all forward, then one by one, we all stort jumping out of the plane.

When I reach the door, I actually hesitate, because I realize I’m suddenly shitting it. I don’t know how many feet up we are, but it looks like a lot. Then someone grabs my hand. It’s Oisinn.

‘Do you want to jump together?’ he goes – he has to really roar to be heard and even then I’m kind of only lip-reading him.

I just nod.

He says something else then and I’m pretty sure it’s, ‘Will you be my best man?’

Then someone gives us each a shove in the back and we fall out of the plane. Our grip on each other is broken and we’re spinning – bollock-naked, bear in mind – through the air. And after a few seconds, I manage to correct my position and I spot Oisinn maybe forty or fifty feet away and I give him the two thumbs-up as if to say, yeah, no, you better believe I’ll be your best man.

It’s amazing because I totally chillax then and just enjoy the view. It’s just, like, fields and woods and obviously the bare orses of the men who jumped before me and are now hurtling towards the ground. The world looks so beautiful from up here. There’s time to actually think. And I end up becoming a bit, I don’t know, philosophical? Maybe this court order preventing me from ever having contact with Sorcha and my children ever again could turn out to be a good thing. The girl might just need time and space to come to the realization that what I did wasn’t actually that bad.

I watch the parachutes open below me, one by one, like flowers, I don’t know, blooming. They’re all the colours of the rainbow. I pull my cord and I’m relieved to discover that Magnus was actually joking. A parachute thankfully comes out.

As we get closer to the ground, we can suddenly make out the people, squinting up at us – forty-eight naked men dropping out of the sky on top of them. Some of the people are laughing and waving at us. Some are shouting threats. Some are making the sign of the cross. One man in a balaclava tries to shoot us but his gun fails to go off and he runs off into some nearby woods.

Then we spot the Gorda cors. Eight of them. And at least twenty Gords. We all land safely in a field. One or two twisted ankles – nothing more serious than that. We all, like, roar and cheer as we hit the ground and no one seems to care that we’re about to be arrested.

The Gords stort walking across the field towards us. We’re all just, like, high-fiving and hugging each other and it doesn’t feel weird at all. As the Gords get closer, we notice that they’re laughing and they’re carrying blankets. They throw them at us and tell us to make ourselves daycent, for fuck’s sake outta that.

‘Pack of eejits,’ one of them goes. ‘Where are ye headed?’

Oisinn’s like, ‘There’s a bus waiting for us in Ballinamore. Our clothes are on that.’

We can’t stop laughing. They can’t stop laughing either.

‘Well,’ the dude goes, ‘you’re not walking into town like that. Yee’ll be fooken kilt. Get in the cars.’

Eddie is at the door.

I’m like, ‘Okay, what are you doing here?’ but he just brushes past me into the gaff.

He goes, ‘You look like shit.’

I’m there, ‘Yeah, no, it was Oisinn’s stag at the weekend. Eddie, you’re not supposed to be here.’

‘Er, I’m allowed to see my dad?’

‘Yeah, you’re kind of not, Eddie? I mean, that’s the entire point of a court order.’

‘What are they going to do – send me to jail?’

‘I think I’m the one who could end up going to jail – although I’m not sure of the ins and outs of it. I don’t have a solicitor anymore. Why aren’t you in school, by the way?’

‘They sent us home because they had to turn the water off. They’ve got, like, an ormy of plumbers in to fit the new toilets.’

‘What number are we up to now?’

‘Fifty-two.’

‘Fifty-two? I’m so proud of you, Eddie.’

‘They’ve had to get rid of the library, the gym and the cafeteria.’

‘Well, people of different genders have to have somewhere to piss and shit. That just a fact, no matter how inconvenient it might be for some people.’

‘We all just eat our lunch at our desks now and we do PE outside – even when it’s raining.’

‘That’s hilarious. It’s all about equality, though. That’s the most important thing.’

‘Also, First and Second Class are going to have to merge. And Third and Fourth. And maybe Fifth and Sixth.’

‘They’re going to be big, big classes.’

‘Not really. Loads of parents have taken their children out of the school.’

‘Bigots. That’s all they are. How did you get here, by the way?’

‘I called a Hailo using your credit cord. I was thinking we could watch my DVD of Leinster versus Northampton.’

Shit. She’s making it very hord for me to say no – even with the threat of imprisonment.

‘Eddie,’ I go, ‘you genuinely shouldn’t be here. If he finds out, he will call the Feds.’

He’s like, ‘It’s all his focking fault!’ and I can see that he’s on the point of tears.

I’m there, ‘He definitely has questions to answer, Eddie. He definitely has questions to answer.’

He goes, ‘You didn’t do anything wrong.’

‘That’s not a hundred percent true.’

‘All you did was text her pretending to be her dead granny.’

‘Exactly.’

‘So focking what? That was only because her granny was a homophobic bitch and she couldn’t accept that fact. I thought it was – oh my God – such a clever thing to do.’

‘Thanks, Eddie. That’s a nice thing to hear.’

‘It’s actually like something I would have done?’

‘That’s because you and me are so alike. Unfortunately, not everyone sees the world like we do. Sorcha’s old man being an example.’

I hear the letterbox suddenly snap behind me. I go and pick the post up off the floor and at the same time I’m like, ‘You’re going to have to go home, Eddie – tempting as watching that match sounds. You certainly know what buttons to press with me.’

Eddie goes, ‘I’m not going home. I’m staying here with you.’

But I’m not really listening to him. Because I’m suddenly staring at this, like, letter? It’s got an English stamp on it and it’s addressed to Fionnuala and Ari Samuels. I’m curious. That’s the reason I end up opening it and giving it the old left to right. It’s from some couple they obviously met on honeymoon. He’s called Bob and she’s called Esther – which doesn’t matter either way. They’re just randomers. And they obviously have no idea what’s been happening because they’re asking how Ari’s health is, and they wouldn’t be doing that if they knew he was dead.

The letter is actually pretty boring – it’s all news about their grandkids, which is of fock-all interest to me – but what does grab my attention are the photographs they’ve stuck in with the letter. There’s, like, ten of them, all from their last night in Sordinia. The old dear, Ari and a bunch of other old folk. I’m flicking through them and I’m suddenly thinking, ‘Oh … Holy … Shit.’

Eddie’s like, ‘What’s wrong?’

And I’m there, ‘She didn’t do it, Eddie.’

He sounds actually disappointed. He’s like, ‘What? Why?’

I hand him one of the photographs. I’m there, ‘What’s that on Ari’s shin?’

Eddie goes, ‘Oh! My God!’

Because there’s a bandage on his shin – covering, presumably, a burn mork.

And I go, ‘There’s the actual proof. She was telling the truth. She didn’t kill him after all.’

And Eddie goes, ‘I was kind of hoping she did do it?’