10. It’ll Be Alt-right on the Night

It’s her leg that I see first? Long and shapely, with a black Manolo on the end of it, sticking out of the back of a silver taxi. I tip over – ever the gent! – and I hold the door open while the woman bum-walks her way along the back seat and steps out onto the pavement in front of the Four Courts.

‘Can you help me with this?’ she goes, trying to hand me her briefcase like she thinks I’m the help.

And that’s when I suddenly recognize her and – after a delay of a few seconds, followed by a sneer – she suddenly recognizes me. It’s Tiffany-Blue – as in, Ari’s granddaughter.

‘Well, look who it is,’ she goes to no one in particular. ‘The murderer’s son with the Twinkie for a penis.’

A Twinkie is an American thing. I had one when I was on my J1. It wouldn’t fill you.

I’m like, ‘Hey, Tiffany-Blue. You’re very welcome,’ sounding weirdly like a porty greeter? ‘The thing is, Tiffany-Blue, I actually don’t think she did kill him?’

She’s like, ‘Oh, please! You have to say that because she’s your mother.’

She slams the taxi door, then storts walking up the steps of the court. I let her go first – again, being a gentleman, but also – if I’m being honest – trying to see through her white trousers to find out if she’s wearing regular knickers or a thong.

‘That burn mork on your grandfather’s shin,’ I go. ‘It didn’t come from a two-bor electric heater. It did come from a piece of borbecue coal. He had it in Sordinia. I got my hands on a photograph. His leg is bandaged.’

She stops and goes, ‘You are being manipulated. Like she manipulates everyone. She’s going to spend the rest of her pitiful life rotting away in a prison cell.’

Some dude arrives over to us then. ‘Hello, Tiffany-Blue,’ he goes. It’s O’Maonaigh. ‘Is this man bothering you?’

She laughs. ‘This little pussy,’ she goes, ‘with a dick like a packet of Life Savers?’

They’re also American. They’re their equivalent of Polos? It probably should be clear at this stage that me and Tiffany-Blue have been on intimate terms.

O’Maonaigh fixes me with a look and goes, ‘You attempt to speak to her again and I’ll arrest you for interfering with a witness.’

I’m there, ‘I was trying to be a gentleman,’ but off they walk, in through the doors of the court.

I follow a short distance behind them.

I find the old man and Hennessy in a little private office. The old man is on the phone. He’s going, ‘You can tell Enda Kenny that an Army presence at all GAA matches was what I promised the electorate and I am not prepared to accept some private security firm compromise. Referees are being murdered. Seven in Galway last month! Four in Wicklow last Saturday alone, Fionn!’

I don’t believe it. Fionn must have said yes to him. What an actual Judas.

‘And while you’re at it,’ he goes, ‘you can also tell Michael Martin that I’ve decided to make it a precondition of talks that he accepts the wall! You can tell them from me that it’s not going to be a chainlink fence! It’s going to be made of solid bloody well brick!’

It’s the second week in April, by the way, and still no Government. Not that it seems to matter. The sun hasn’t stopped moving around the Earth.

Hennessy is talking to some dude who I’m guessing is the old dear’s barrister. He looks at me and goes, ‘And you are?’

‘Ross,’ I go. ‘I’m Fionnuala’s, I suppose, son.’

He’s there, ‘Fionnuala’s I suppose son. It’s nice to meet you, Fionnuala’s I suppose son.’

They always think they’re hilarious.

‘Dermot Earley,’ he goes, without bothering to offer me his hand. ‘I’m going to be conducting your mother’s defence. You found the evidence, I believe, that the burn on the deceased’s leg was sustained a week earlier?’

I’m there, ‘Will it be enough?’

‘I’m more optimistic than I was when I took on the case. You did well, Fionnuala’s I suppose son.’

He wanders over to my old man, who’s finished chatting to Fionn. Hennessy doesn’t say anything to me for about thirty seconds, then he goes, ‘He’s right. You did good.’

I’m there, ‘I just hope it’s enough to prove her innocence. I feel like a total tit, by the way.’

He has me dressed up like a dork – suit and tie, actual shoes instead of my famous Dubes, then my hair is combed to the side with no even product in it?

He goes, ‘The State is calling you as a witness. We want the jury to like you.’

‘Why wouldn’t they like my usual shoes?’

He doesn’t answer me. Instead, after a few seconds, he goes, ‘Sorcha still sweet on you?’

I’m like, ‘Er, no. It’s a long story, but I basically texted her from her dead granny’s phone.’

Hennessy’s jaw just drops. Which is saying something – he’s done some seriously iffy shit in his time.

‘So, yeah, no,’ I go, ‘before you ask, she’s cut off my access altogether.’

He’s like, ‘You miss them, right?’

I do – even though Eddie still calls to the gaff occasionally. I haven’t seen the boys for literally a month and it’s killing me. I don’t even give a shit that they’re into soccer. I want to be with them no matter what.

I’m like, ‘Of course I miss them.’

‘You put on the performance of a lifetime in that court,’ he goes, ‘and I’ll forget about you stealing the plans for Aquatraz.’

‘You’ll help me get joint custody?’

‘I’ll help you get joint custody.’

Outside in the corridor, there’s a definite air of something. I hear the shuffle of activity and the voices of boggers going, ‘This way … That’s it … Keep walking … In here …’

Then the door suddenly opens and in she walks. My old dear. The old man makes a beeline for her and throws his orms around her. He’s like, ‘Fionnuala! How wonderful to see you! It’s been a long road, but justice is within sight at last!’

A knob.

She spots me then. She’s like, ‘Ross?’

I’m there, ‘Yeah, no, hi.’

‘Have you a hug for your mother?’

I hug her. She ends up shaming me into it? ‘Thank you,’ she goes, ‘for finding that photograph.’

I’m like, ‘I didn’t find it as such. I just happened to be noseying through your post.’

‘And just to think, I was mad at Ari when he asked those people to join us that night. I thought they were common.’

‘He must have exchanged addresses with them.’

‘It certainly wasn’t me. I had no interest in them. But how wonderful that they got in touch.’

She gives me another hug. I’ve had more affection out of her today than I had in my entire childhood.

‘By the way,’ I go, ‘you’ll never guess who I saw outside.’

She’s like, ‘Who?’

‘What are your two least favourite words in the world?’

‘Affordable housing?’

‘I’m not talking about affordable housing. I’m talking about Tiffany-Blue. She’s here.’

‘Well, of course she’s here. I presume she’s going to give evidence.’

‘Well, she’s already said a few non-too-complimentary things about me.’

Someone steps into the room then – I’m presuming some kind of usher – and goes, ‘Everyone ready?’

We all just look at each other – me, the old dear and the old man especially – and we all just nod.

She ends up being led out through one door and we end up being led out through another, into the public gallery, where her friend Delma is sitting along with some of her mates from The Gables, the golf club and her various campaigns against things that might destroy the unique character of Foxrock. Delma hugs me and the old man, and we take our seats at the front.

We’re only, like, ten feet away from Tiffany-Blue, who’s sitting next to O’Maonaigh.

About sixty seconds later, the old dear is led in by two prison officers. She spots Delma and mouths the words, ‘I love your coat!’

And Tiffany-Blue suddenly can’t contain herself. ‘You fucking murderer!’ she shouts. ‘You murdered my grandfather, you fucking murdering bitch!’

The dude who performed the post-mortem on Ari is being given a serious grilling by the old dear’s barrister – this Dermot Earley dude.

‘Let’s talks about the scar on Ari’s right shin,’ he goes, ‘which played such a crucial role in persuading the prosecution that Ari was murdered. How long have you been performing autopsies?’

The dude’s like, ‘Twenty-two years.’

‘Twenty-two years. So in that time, you’ve seen a lot of stiffs, have you not?’

‘As a pathologist, yes, I see bodies on a daily basis.’

‘So when you examined this one, when you observed the scar on the right shin and concluded – to quote from your report – that it was “a superficial burn that had no relevance in respect of death”, this was the considered view of a pathologist with more than two decades of experience in the area of post-mortem examination?’

‘Yes.’

‘What else did your examination reveal? And may I draw your attention to page fifteen of your report?’

The dude flicks through it. ‘Yes,’ he goes, when he finds the right page, ‘the deceased had a history of cardiac problems.’

‘A history of cardiac problems!’ the barrister goes. ‘Could you offer the jury a potted version of that history, please?’

Barristers are a bit like teachers. They always seem cleverer than they actually are because they can talk shit to you and you’re not allowed to talk shit back. I’d love to see how the average senior counsel would cope if the dude in the box was allowed to go, ‘Shut the fock up, you dick with ears.’

The pathologist can’t do that, though. He has to play the game. Which is good news for the old dear. ‘The deceased had suffered six heart attacks,’ he goes, ‘and had quite a number of surgeries, including three bypass operations.’

‘Six heart attacks! The one that killed him being the seventh?’

‘The seventh, yes.’

‘So it wasn’t difficult to conclude – as you did – that this man expired due to natural causes. In other words, he died a non-violent death.’

‘That was my conclusion.’

‘Which is why you took the decision to immediately release the body to his next-of-kin.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Then, a short time later, the Gardaí came to you and they said what?’

‘They asked me about the burn mark on his right shin. They asked if, in my view, it might have been the result of an electrical appliance – specifically a two- or three-bar electric heater – being dropped into the bath for the purposes of inducing a heart attack.’

‘And what did you tell them when they came to you with this fanciful story?’

‘I told them that, in my view, Ari had died of natural causes. But that if his death was now the subject of a criminal investigation, I would be prepared to examine the body again.’

‘And did you?’

‘Yes.’

‘And what did you discover?’

‘With the natural decomposition that takes place, I was unable to make an accurate assessment of when the burn was sustained.’

‘So you, who performed the job of examining his body, of dissecting his organs, determined that he died a natural death?’

‘Yes.’

‘With no violence?’

‘With no evidence of violence.’

‘The jury is being asked to consider evidence – not the absence of it.’

‘Yes.’

‘No further questions.’

I look at the old dear. She sort of, like, smiles, but in such a way that it’s impossible to tell whether she’s happy or not.

‘This is such bullshit!’ Tiffany-Blue shouts. ‘Look at her sitting there playing the grieving fucking widow.’

The judge goes, ‘Any further outbursts in this court will result in my jailing someone for contempt,’ and he wallops his hammer slash whatever-the-actual-word-is off the desk.

Other witnesses come and go. It’s mostly pretty boring. Lots of technical shit that goes way, way over my head. I actually spend most of the afternoon just spacing. Then, just after four o’clock, the final witness of the day is called. It’s Bob, the English dude who sent the old dear the photograph of Ari with the bandage on his shin. The old dear’s barrister throws him a nice easy one to stort off. He asks him if he remembers first meeting Ari and Fionnuala Samuels.

‘Yes,’ he goes, ‘we were on us ’olidays and we were ’avin’ us breakfast one morning when we got talking to this nice old duffer – American – who were sitting at next table int restaurant. And that were Ari. Like I said, he were a lovely fella. Said he were ont ’oneymoon, even though he were sitting ont his own at time. I think she were int toilet.

‘Any road, like I said to you, I liked him and so did Esther – and we both call as we see. He ast us if we’d like to come up to his villa that night and I said, “Appen we will.”

‘So then she came back – Fionnuala – fromt toilet. And I didn’t much like ’er, being honest. She were a bit stuck-up. She said to ’im, in front of us, “Why are you talking to them? They’re not People Like Us!” ’

The barrister decides he’s probably losing the sympathy of the jury so he interrupts him. He goes, ‘Could you tell us what happened that night?’

‘Right you are! Well, it turned out we weren’t t’only ones Ari’d invited. There were loadut other couples there. It were a good night, although I wanted to go ’ome at one point because I thought I ’eard ’er – Fionnuala – describe me and Esther as either scum or scum ut t’Earth. She were pretty plastered. Esther persuaded me that I’d mebbe mis-’eard it.’

He didn’t mishear it. Take it from me.

The dude goes, ‘It were during this conversation that Ari decided he were going to give barbercue a bit of a poke. He were a bit doddery, like. Wasn’t fully with it, I thought. But that were when a load of coals fell out – he must have really gone at it – and one them burned ’im pretty badly ont shin.’

‘You saw this yourself?’ the barrister goes.

‘I not only saw it. I were’t one who dressed it.’

‘You dressed it?’

‘I were’t one who’t put bandage on it. I ’ave First Aid training, see. I were int t’Army.’

‘On which shin did Ari sustain this burn injury?’

‘Same one int photo.’

‘Can you tell the jury which shin?’

‘It were’t right.’

‘No further questions.’

The judge says that’s it for the day. He’ll see us back here on Tuesday morning. We all stand up. It seems to have been a good day for the old dear. She can’t keep the smile from her face as she’s led from the court by the same two prison officers who escorted her in.

Delma shouts, ‘Don’t worry, Fionnuala! We’ll be eating carrot cake in Mount Usher before the end of next week!’ and that seems to be pretty much the general vibe.

Tiffany-Blue shouts, ‘This is some bullshit!’

On the way out of the court, the old man turns around to Hennessy and goes, ‘This is some bullshit is right! This is distracting me from the important business of trying to form a Government! How the hell did the State even agree to take this case?’

And Hennessy goes, ‘Don’t go counting your chickens, Charlie. The DPP’s got some big shit to throw at her next week.’

So it’s, like, Friday night and the old crew is back together in Kielys of Donnybrook Town. We’re talking me, Christian, Oisinn, JP and Fionn – and the famous Magnus, who is fast becoming one of the goys.

‘Look,’ I go, ‘I know the wedding is still, whatever, a month away, but my gift to you, Magnus, is going to be a Leinster season ticket. Even though rugby isn’t your thing – you’ve obviously chosen the other bus – but it’s the best way I know to express how I feel, which is that I’m delighted you’re in Oisinn’s life and I’m delighted you’re in our lives as well. End of story.’

He goes, ‘That’sh very shweet of you, Rosh,’ and he puts his orm around me and kisses me on the cheek.

And it’s fine. It’s fine. It’s fine. It’s fine.

Christian is telling Oisinn his news. Lauren is coming home tomorrow. Her and the kids. For good. Christian has decided to forgive her. He’s a bigger man than me. I mention that as well. I’m there, ‘I’d have said to her, “You made your focking bed …”, but not this mug. Too nice for his own good.’

Oisinn goes, ‘I’m delighted for you, Christian. Hey, it’ll be great having her and the kids at the wedding.’

JP has barely said a word all night. He’s on Tinder. I’ve been there. It’s pretty addictive alright. At one point, he holds up his phone and goes, ‘What do you think?’ and Oisinn takes it from him and nods – I think it’s a word – approvally? Christian, Fionn and Magnus all do the same. Then it gets handed to me. And I have to stop myself from actually laughing. Because it’s Tilly. I think about telling him that she’s a focking bore. But then I think, no, let him find out for himself.

‘She’s nice,’ I go. ‘And birds called Tilly are usually pretty open-minded, aren’t they?’

He’s there, ‘I’m swiping right, so!’

It’s nice to see him happy again, too.

Magnus gets the round in – like I said, he’s fitting right in – and I turn around to Fionn and tell him I can’t believe he’s now working for my old man, after all the things he said about him, including that whole blind leading the blonde thing. I’m there, ‘Have you told Sorcha yet?’ because I’m guessing she’s going to have a shit-fit when she finds out.

He goes, ‘I haven’t had an opportunity yet, but she’ll understand when she –’

He doesn’t get the chance to finish his sentence. Because Sorcha suddenly walks through the doors. She looks pretty pissed about something.

I’m there, ‘Now’s your chance to break the news, Fionn.’

But it turns out she already knows. She makes a sudden beeline towards him. She covers the ground between them like Bryan Habana. From six feet away, she already has her hand cocked. Then she slaps him across the face.

‘You bastard!’ she goes.

It’s an absolute peach as well. His glasses go flying off him.

He’s like, ‘Sorcha, if you’d just let me explain –’

She’s there, ‘How could you? He’s a racist, Fionn! And a misogynist and a liar and … all the other things we said!’

Everyone in Kielys is suddenly looking over. It’s great not being the centre of attention for once.

He tries to go, ‘Sorcha, can we talk somewhere in private?’

And she’s like, ‘No, we can’t! I trusted you! We said we were going to work together to try to make the world a more loving and environmentally aware place!’

I look down and I see Fionn’s glasses on the ground. I accidentally on purpose stand on them, crushing them into the ground.

She goes, ‘I can’t believe you’re actually working for him!’

He ends up suddenly losing it with her. He’s there, ‘Jesus Christ, I’m playing him, Sorcha!’ and then he looks at me, like he suddenly regrets opening his mouth in front of me.

‘Playing him?’ Sorcha goes.

I’m there, ‘Don’t worry, I’m not going to say shit to him.’

He lowers his voice and everyone goes back to their drinks. ‘Yes,’ he goes, ‘I’m playing him. I’m talking to Enda Kenny and I’m talking to Micheál Martin and I’m being deliberately difficult. I’m hoping that Fianna Fáil and Fine Gael will realize that maybe they should start talking to each other.’

‘Fianna Fáil and Fine Gael?’ Sorcha goes. ‘But they’ve got – oh my God – nothing in common?’

‘I know.’

‘They, like, hate each other.’

‘I know that, too. But I’m hoping, the longer we talk, the more they’ll realize that they hate the alternative even more. Soldiers at GAA matches. A wall around Cork. Women drivers treated like second-class citizens.’

‘Fionn, they’d sooner see all of those things than work together in Government.’

‘It’s still worth trying, Sorcha. Look, I haven’t given up on that better world we talked about – a world without casual cruelty and meanness just for the sake of it.’

And I go, ‘I, er, accidentally stood on your glasses, Fionn. And yeah, no, they’re focked.’

It’s O’Maonaigh’s turn in the spotlight. The dude who pushed the case from day one. The dude who said he looked into my old dear’s eyes and saw genuine evil where the rest of us just see dilated pupils, evidence of liver deterioration and greed.

There’s a definite change in the atmos when he steps into the witness box.

‘There he is!’ the old man mutters under his breath. ‘The man who cooked up this entire conspiracy to smear the name of a good woman and destroy the political fortunes of New Republic on behalf of the Establishment!’

Ronan is sitting beside me. He’s come to offer his grandmother some moral support – although, from the time he arrived, he’s seemed more interested in ogling some junior solicitor on the State’s side, who I happen to think is a ringer for Iggy Azalea.

I give him a nudge and I whisper to him. I’m there, ‘Are you following this?’

He goes, ‘Course Ine foddying it.’

‘It’s just you haven’t shouted a single threat at this cop. Or the judge. It’s very unlike you.’

‘I’ve me foorst yee-or exaddems cubbing up. I doatunt wanth to miss them for conthempth of cowurt.’

‘It’s not because you were scoping Iggy Azalea over there, no?’

‘Just cos you’ve altready eaten, Rosser, dudn’t mee-un you caddent look at the medu.’

I just, like, smile at him.

O’Maonaigh, by the way, is enjoying exactly what Ronan would like right now – a nice easy ride. But then he would be. The barrister asking the questions is Willie Murphy SC, who’s on his actual side. He asks him about the history of the investigation from the moment that Tiffany-Blue first alleged that her grandfather had been offed by my old dear.

‘Tell the jury,’ the dude goes, ‘when you first suspected that there may have been merit in these claims by the granddaughter of Ari Samuels?’

O’Maonaigh’s there, ‘It was when I examined Fionnuala O’Carroll-Kelly’s laptop.’

I watch Hennessy turn to the old man and nod, as if to say, here it is – we knew this was coming.

‘You examined her laptop,’ this Willie Murphy dude goes, ‘which you took away in the course of routine evidence collection.’

He’s like, ‘That’s correct.’

‘And on that laptop, you found a document file – did you not? – entitled How To Get Away With Murder.’

‘That’s correct.’

The old dear ends up totally losing her shit. ‘I told you when I was arrested,’ she roars, ‘that was a sample chapter from a psychological thriller I was planning to pitch to my publisher.’

‘Silence!’ the judge shouts. ‘I will not tolerate these interruptions!’

The barrister dude continues. ‘Would you mind reading from that document for the jury, please? Page seventeen – the fifth paragraph onwards.’

‘The fifth?’ O’Maonaigh goes.

‘If you would?’

So the dude storts reading from the document in front of him. He’s there, ‘She felt him inside her. All of him. It was as if a tree had been planted between her legs, its thick trunk reaching up through her cervix, its strong branches creeping into her uterus, its twigs tickling her ovaries. Then, all at once, the tree was withdrawn and he blew his sap all over her sweat-moistened belly.’

‘Jesus focking Christ!’ I shout.

‘I apologize,’ this Willie Murphy goes. ‘I meant the sixth paragraph onwards.’

I look at the jury. They all look like they want to vom.

O’Maonaigh returns to the story. He goes, ‘It was when he left the room to run a bath that she decided to put her plan into action. She took the two-bar electric heater from underneath the bed where she’d hidden it.’

I’m thinking, holy fock. And I doubt if I’m the only one.

He goes, ‘Slowly, deliberately, she plugged the twenty-metre extension cord into the wall on the landing, then returned to the bedroom, unspooling the cord as she walked. She plugged the two-bar electric heater into the extension, then waited for the sound of the taps being switched off.

‘Moments later, she heard the flow of water stop, then his pleasured exhalation as he allowed his body to disappear under the surface of the hot and load-bearing bathwater. She stepped into the bathroom, holding the two-bar electric heater in front of her. He looked at her and raised a questioning eyebrow. “What’s that, Darling?” he said. He was a very wealthy man. He had never seen a two-bar electric heater before.

‘She smiled at him evenly and said, “It’s your unlucky day.” Then, without pausing to consider the enormity of what she was about to do, she dropped the two-bar electric heater into the water. There was a flash. The house was suddenly cast into darkness as the fuse blew. In the blackness of the bathroom, she heard him thrash around in the water until he was suddenly still – and suddenly dead.’

The old man lets a roar out of him – he can’t help himself? ‘It’s only a bloody well story!’ he goes. ‘Nothing more!’

The judge is like, ‘Please continue.’

O’Maonaigh goes, ‘She pulled the extension cord out of the wall, then she went downstairs and replaced the fuse. Light returned to the house. She went back to the bathroom, emptied the bath, then dried his body as it lay there, limp and still. With great difficulty, she managed to pull the body out of the bath and lay it down on the tiled floor. She dressed it in the tracksuit that she had laid out earlier.’

There’s, like, genuine gasps from the jury.

‘You murdering bitch!’ Tiffany-Blue roars. ‘You fucking murdering fucking bitch!’

‘Please – keep reading,’ the judge goes.

O’Maonaigh’s there, ‘She dragged the body downstairs, feet first, slowly, so as not to cause any giveaway contusions to his head. Then she dragged it down a second flight of stairs to the basement, where she laid it down beside the treadmill. She switched the machine on and pushed the speed up to high.’

Willie Murphy just smiles and goes, ‘No further questions.’

I’m looking at the jury and they’re all in just, like, shock? They’re looking at each other with their mouths wide open, like they’ve just listened to my old dear confess – which, I suppose, in some of their minds, they actually have?

The old man goes, ‘It’s bloody well fiction, Hennessy! Like something Jeffrey Archer would write!’

But Hennessy’s there, ‘Jeffrey Archer’s wife never turned up dead.’

The judge says the case will resume tomorrow morning at eleven o’clock.

Ronan turns around to me and goes, ‘It’s a dudden deal, Rosser. Your ma’s toast. Untless when you’re in that box, you can say sometin to chayunge that jewer doddy’s moyunt.’

I don’t need this. I literally don’t need it? I’m supposed to be in court today, giving evidence that will hopefully stop my old dear from being sent down for a murder she possibly didn’t – but maybe actually did – commit. And now I’ve got Mister focking Wade on the phone, in tears, asking me to come to the school. He’s going, ‘I need you to come to the school. You seem to be the reasonable one.’

I’m there, ‘That’s a nice thing for me to hear. But the courts have said I’m not allowed to go within one hundred yords of my children and I’m supposed to be giving evidence in my old dear’s murder trial this afternoon.’

But he goes, ‘Your wife has gone mad, Ross! She’s gone absolutely mad! Please come to the school – I want to show you something.’

So I end up having no choice in the matter. I check Sorcha’s Twitter feed while I’m on the Stillorgan dualler and I’m straightaway worried about the girl. She was awake until – it looks like – four o’clock this morning, arguing with total randomers, who don’t even have names. They’re called Avenger27 and YesImTHATGuy and they have eggs instead of profile pictures. And Sorcha has been arguing with twelve, thirteen, fourteen of these randomers at exactly the same time.

One of them will make some reasonable-sounding point about Cork people, or women drivers, or how climate change is the will of the Baby Jesus, and Sorcha will fire straightaway back with some snorky comment about their grammar or their spelling and she’ll tell them to go and educate themselves and then she’ll include the hashtags #LoveMore and #LoveHorder. But then they’ll say something back to her and, within two or three exchanges, she’s going, ‘You are focking vile Nazi scum.’

It’s not the Sorcha I know and still love.

I reach the school and I find Mister Wade in his office. He looks wrecked. He doesn’t say anything to me, except, ‘I want to show you something,’ and I follow him up the stairs.

We’re suddenly walking along this long, winding corridor and I’m looking at all these doors – we’re talking thirty or forty, maybe even more – with just, like, symbols on them? One is, like, a circle with four arrows sticking out of it. Then there’s one with, like, two arrows sticking out of it and two squiggly lines underneath it. They’re like cave drawings, or traffic signs – what they mean is anyone’s guess.

I’m like, ‘Are these all –?’

And he goes, ‘These are toilets, Ross.’

‘All of them?’

‘Yes.’

‘There’s a lot of them, isn’t there?’

‘Sixty-four in total.’

‘Sixty-four? Fock.’

He storts giving me a guided tour of them and at the same time he’s talking about the school as he once remembered it? ‘This used to be the computer room,’ he goes. ‘We were very proud of our computer room … And that was the music room in there. The girls were hoping to stage The Pajama Game at the end of the school year. That’s all gone now … This was the science laboratory. We were the first primary school in Ireland to have a working science lab … Now it’s a toilet for the – I don’t know what that symbol means – I think it’s lolosexual.’

‘Which ones are they again?’

‘They’re the ones who find the whole notion of sexuality laugh out loud funny.’

‘It’s hord to keep track, isn’t it?’

‘You’re probably wondering where all the children are?’

‘Yeah, no, it did cross my mind that there doesn’t seem to be anyone around to basically use these toilets.’

‘They’re all squeezed into what used to be the maintenance block. We’ve had to merge First Class with Second Class, Third Class with Fourth Class and Fifth Class with Sixth Class. Which in normal circumstances would lead to overcrowding. But parents are removing their children from the school and sending them elsewhere.’

‘In which case, that’s probably enough toilets. It’s time for you to possibly draw a line. It looks to me like you’ve got everyone covered at this stage.’

‘Not according to your wife and daughter.’

‘Well, she’s actually my son.’

‘They want more.’

‘More?’

‘Apparently, we have nowhere for the hohosexuals to go.’

‘Hohosexuals? Are they not the same as the lolosexuals? Because they do sound the same?’

‘Lolosexuals find the notion of sexuality laugh out loud funny. Hohosexuals find the notion of sexuality side-splittingly hilarious.’

‘See, they do definitely sound similar. I’m probably not being very politically correct here, but could they not piss and shit in the same place?’

‘Your wife doesn’t think so. That’s why she screamed at me on the phone. That’s why she’s on her way here now.’

‘She’s coming here?’

‘Please stay, Ross. I need an ally. I’m not strong enough to fight them on my own.’

He suddenly bursts into tears and – I swear to fock – storts literally sobbing on my shoulder. I’m sort of, like, hugging him, going, ‘Dude, I know it’s easy for me to say, but you have to stand up to them.’

Eventually he pulls away from me, wipes his cheeks with his palm and goes, ‘They want the staff canteen. And, understandably, the teachers are in revolt because I told them that they may have to eat their lunch sitting in their cars. They said, “No way – you’ve got to stop appeasing this one student.” It seems the computer room was the Sudetenland – but the canteen is Poland.’

‘I’ve no idea what that even means.’

A voice from the other end of the corridor goes, ‘He’s comparing me to Hitler.’

We both turn around at the exact same time. It’s Sorcha. She’s wearing her black Alexander Wang blazer – which she always throws on her when she means business – and black, four-inch Loubs, which click off the tiles as she walks down the corridor towards us. It’s pretty intimidating, it has to be said.

Mister Wade suddenly gets his courage up. Yes, I’m that good at hugs. ‘You are like Hitler,’ he goes, ‘with your regular lists of demands that must be met without question.’

Sorcha goes, ‘You’re the one who oppresses minorities. I think it’s pretty obvious who Hitler is in this scenario.’

‘You’re the one who’s Hitler.’

‘I think you’ll find you’re the one who’s Hitler.’

‘Hill! Air!’

It’s another voice from the opposite end of the corridor slash toilet block. It’s Eddie.

Sorcha goes, ‘Hi, Darling – I was just telling Mister Wade that we are not going to give in to his Gestapo tactics. First they came for the hohosexuals and I did not speak out …’

And that’s when Eddie says the most unbelievable thing. ‘There’s no such thing as hohosexuals,’ he goes. ‘It’s totally made-up.’

Sorcha’s there, ‘What do you mean it’s made-up? Hohosexuals are a thing – we read their amazing, amazing stories on the Internet.’

‘Yeah, they’re only a thing in America. They’re the children of divorced parents who are looking for attention.’

It’s a moment. There’s no doubt about that. No one says anything for a good, like, sixty seconds. Sorcha is just, like, staring at Eddie with a look of horror spreading across her face. She goes, ‘Eddie, are you saying you did this for attention too?’

‘And for a laugh,’ Eddie goes. ‘Er, so-so-sexuals? People who think that the issue of sexuality is neither a very good thing nor a very bad thing? Hello?’

Sorcha just looks instantly hortbroken.

Mister Wade goes, ‘Are you saying this was all just a joke to you?’

It is kind of funny? But I’ve decided to definitely hold the laughter in.

Sorcha’s there, ‘I don’t know what kind of a boy we raised –’

‘I’m not a focking boy!’ Eddie goes. ‘I’m a focking girl!’

We’re all like, ‘What?’

‘Yeah, mic drop!’ he goes – or she goes, it seems to be again. ‘I was just taking the piss out of the whole transgender thing. I wanted to see how far I could push you.’

Sorcha can’t accept it, though. I watch her eyes fill up with tears and she’s like, ‘Eddie, you couldn’t have been just taking the piss! You were saving up your pocket money for gender reassignment surgery, remember?’

But Honor – I’m calling her that again because she seems to be serious – just laughs in her face and goes, ‘I totally had you. Hobosexuals? I thought I’d gone too far with that one, but you actually believed me!’

I’m like, ‘What about being interested in rugby, Honor? Was that an act?’

Sorcha goes, ‘Stay out of this, Ross!’ and she actually roars it at me. ‘Honor, I can’t believe you would do something like this. Having a genderqueer son was a huge port of my election platform.’

‘Yeah,’ Honor goes, ‘every second sentence out of your mouth was, “Speaking as the mother of a transgender child …” ’

‘That’s because I was brought up to embrace diversity, not to make a joke out of it.’

‘No wonder no one voted for you – you bogus bitch.’

I decide the moment calls for a firm word from me. I’m there, ‘Honor, maybe don’t speak to your mother like that.’

Her and Sorcha are just, like, eyeballing each other. I can immediately tell that, as far as Sorcha is concerned, this is definitely the worst thing she’s ever done – even worse than the time she infested her previous school with rats.

Mister Wade goes, ‘I’ll leave you to your conversation. I’m going to go and ring the plumber. Get rid of all these ridiculous lavatories.’

Off he heads – the poor focker.

Honor’s there, ‘I don’t want to live with you anymore – you, your focking knob of a mother and your focking dickhead of a father.’

I snort. Can’t be helped.

She goes, ‘I want to live with him,’ and – pretty flattering, it has to be said – she means me.

‘You can’t live with him,’ Sorcha goes. ‘He’s the reason you’ve turned out to be the horrible little girl you are.’

‘No, he isn’t,’ Honor goes, in fairness to her. ‘I’d be a bitch anyway. But he’s my dad. And he doesn’t give a shit what I am. He just loves me for me.’

That’s actually true. I wouldn’t mind a straight answer to that rugby question, though.

I’m there, ‘Honor, you can’t live with me. Like your mother said, I encouraged you to break that other kid’s collarbone – even though I still maintain it was a technically legal tackle.’

‘I want to live with you,’ she goes – there’s, like, pleading in her voice. And her eyes. ‘We could find another club for me. Maybe Bective. Or even Seapoint – you’re a hero out there. Oh my God, I’d love to follow in the great Ross O’Carroll-Kelly’s footsteps.’

And a terrible thing happens then. I look into her eyes, and I realize that I can’t one hundred percent believe that she means it. I’m thinking, this might be as much of an act as the whole Eddie Lalor thing.

I’m there, ‘I’m sorry, Honor. Look, I have to go. I’m in the witness box this afternoon.’

Sorcha goes, ‘I hope your mum gets off,’ which is the nicest thing she’s said to me in a long time.

I’m just like, ‘Thanks.’

As I walk away, I hear Honor go, ‘You can’t stop me from seeing my dad. If you don’t let me see him, I’m going to make your life – oh my God – so focking unbearable.’

And Sorcha’s there, ‘You already have, Honor. You already have.’

‘Can I remind you,’ the barrister cross-examining me goes, ‘that you are under oath?’

I’m there, ‘Yeah, no, I know what swearing on the Bible means?’

‘Then I’m going to ask you the question again. Did you or did you not tell Tiffany-Blue Samuels that you considered your mother capable of anything – including murdering her grandfather?’

The old dear is looking at me with just, like, pleading eyes. Hennessy is mouthing the word ‘No!’ at me, over and over again. Tiffany-Blue shouts, ‘Tell the fucking truth!’

‘Yeah, no,’ I go. ‘I did say that.’

There’s, like, gasps in the courtroom.

I’m there, ‘But I said it in the course of trying to get the girl into the sack.’

Willie Murphy SC is, like, genuinely shocked, and I’d say he’s heard a few things in his time. ‘In the course of trying to get her into the sack,’ he goes, ‘you told her that you thought your mother might kill her grandfather?’

‘I told her I thought she was capable of it. I was trying to let her think I was on her side. She was convinced that my old dear only married him because he was worth, I don’t know, two billion snots. She met my old dear in rehab and my old dear apparently told her that the next time she got married, it would be to a rich man who was about to fall off the perch.’

‘And you suggested she was the kind of woman who might perhaps … push him off the perch?’

‘I can’t remember my exact words but I said, yeah, no, don’t be surprised if he’s found dead in suspicious circumstances.’

‘Ross,’ the old dear shouts, ‘how could you?’

The old man goes, ‘You’re putting words in the boy’s mouth! I’m calling for a mistrial!’

‘In my defence,’ I go, ‘this was to make her think – like I said – that I was on her side? It was a tactic. And one that worked because we did end up …’

I look at Tiffany-Blue.

She goes, ‘You and your little Tootsie Roll dick – you were in and out in thirty seconds.’

Everyone in the court laughs. Tootsie Roll. The girl is snack-food obsessed.

The judge goes, ‘Can we have order in the court, please?’

The barrister goes, ‘You said something else to Tiffany-Blue as well, didn’t you? Another piece of pillow talk that might also interest the jury.’

I’m there, ‘Is this something to do with me naming Leinster XVs to try to, er, hold back the tide?’

Again, there’s laughter in the court. They’re getting their money’s worth, in fairness to them.

The dude goes, ‘Perhaps we might like to hear that another time. I’m interested in what you told her about Alma Goad – another elderly person you said your mother killed for money.’

The old man jumps to his feet and roars across the courtroom at our barrister, who he’s paying good money to supposedly defend the old dear. He’s like, ‘Are you going to object to this line of questioning or am I going to have to go down there and do it myself?’

It’s only then that Dermot Earley SC stands up and goes, ‘Yes, objection. This is hearsay. Dúirt bean liom go ndúirt bean léi. Fionnuala O’Carroll-Kelly is not on trial for murdering Alma Goad. She’s on trial for murdering Ari Samuels.’

The judge goes, ‘I’m going to allow the question – if there is a question?’

The barrister is like, ‘My question is this: was your certainty that your mother was capable of killing Ari Samuels based on your knowledge that she had already performed a similar act – albeit for considerably lesser stakes – when she killed Alma Goad?’

I’m there, ‘I didn’t say she killed Alma Goad!’ and I pretty much roar it at him. ‘I said she conned her out of her floristry business and Alma died a broken woman! Big difference!’

‘You told Tiffany-Blue that your mother “literally” killed her.’

‘Yeah, by literally, I meant basically. I would have thought that was obvious.’

‘In your mind, you held your mother responsible for the death of this woman, who – as you said – owned a florist shop where your mother worked and which she eventually came to own herself?’

I look at the old dear. She’s got, like, tears streaming down – I’m guessing – the small of her back. I’m focking this up in a big-time way. I know I am? But I can’t lie. And it has nothing to do with being under oath.

‘Yeah, no,’ I go, ‘I did hold her responsible. Alma was a nice old lady who didn’t deserve what my old dear did to her. And she definitely went downhill afterwards.’

The old man shouts, ‘They’re putting words in your mouth, Kicker!’

I’m there, ‘Me and my old dear have a very complicated relationship.’

The barrister’s like, ‘It would certainly seem so.’

‘A lot of it goes back to her not wanting me when I was a baby. We’ve never really got on. I’m her horshest critic. She’ll tell you that herself. I always, always think the worst of the woman and – to be honest – she very rarely disappoints me. She’s greedy. She’s stuck-up. She’s insincere. She’s self-serving. She’s – what was the phrase? – incapable of human feeling? She’s a drunk and she’s got a head like a stuffed pocket. But there’s no way she would be capable of killing someone.’

‘I expect you’d be telling me a different story,’ he goes, ‘if you were trying to get me into the sack.’

And I go, ‘That’s actually a bit homophobist.’

The entire jury laughs. And I realize something in that moment. They like me. I don’t know what way they feel about the old dear, but they definitely like me.

I’m there, ‘The woman is a wagon. She’s a weapon of mass destruction. If she’d thrown me to wolves on the day I was born, they would have made a better fist of raising me than her. But she’s not a killer.’

‘No further questions,’ the dude goes.

As I step out of the box, I look at the old dear. She’s dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief, even though they’re basically bone-dry. And she mouths the words ‘Thank you, Ross. Thank you.’

We’re sitting in The Chancery Inn – we’re talking me, the old man and Hennessy – having just listened to the two sides summing up.

‘An inspired idea of yours!’ the old man goes.

I’m there, ‘I don’t know about inspired. It was the nearest pub to the court.’

‘I’m referring to your moment on the stand! All those names you called your mother! A drunk! A weapon of mass what’s-it! I said to your godfather there, “You can see what he’s doing, can’t you? He’s leading the jury to believe that he hates Fionnuala so that any testimony he offers in her favour will carry additional weight!” ’

‘Yeah, no, I actually meant those things I said?’

‘In-spired! I only hope it’ll be enough!’

Hennessy knocks back his brandy in one. ‘They’ve no forensics,’ he goes. ‘No murder weapon. The evidence that she was out of the house that lunchtime narrows the window of opportunity for the murder. We knocked out the evidence of Ari’s burn injury. Her computer could be a problem. That story was very visual and identical in almost every detail to the way the prosecution say it happened. We can only hope that something you said in that box struck a chord with the jury.’

And hopefully not the bit about her being greedy and incapable of human feeling.

The old man’s phone rings on the table in front of us. He looks at it. ‘It’s young Fionn!’ he goes, looking at Hennessy. Then he answers it. ‘What have you got for me?’ After listening for ten seconds, he’s like, ‘I can’t believe we’re still talking about the wall! No, I will not accept a four-foot-high wall! What bloody use is a wall they can see over? You tell Michael Martin that it’s going to be four metres high – and I’m going to get Israel to build the blasted thing!’

He hangs up, then I get this suddenly attack of – I don’t know – something that feels like guilt? It’s possibly loyalty, its first cousin.

‘Fionn is playing games,’ I automatically go. ‘He’s deliberately focking up the talks to try to push Fianna Fáil and, er, the other one that sounds like Fianna Fáil –?’

‘Fine Gael,’ Hennessy goes.

‘That’s them. He’s trying to push the two of them together. Get them to see that they’re not so different.’

I don’t get the reaction I think I’m going to get? I’m expecting the old man to flip. Or at least say thank you. Except he doesn’t. He just smiles at Hennessy and Hennessy smiles back at him. ‘We know what Fionn is doing!’ the old man eventually goes. ‘Why do you think I asked him to conduct the negotiations and not young Muirgheal?’

I’m like, ‘What, so you don’t want to be the actual Taoiseach?’

He’s there, ‘We don’t want to be part of some coalition arrangement that forces us into all sorts of compromises! No, we figured if we pushed Fianna Fáil and Fine Gael together, it’ll make New Republic stronger in the long term!’

‘So you’re using Fionn rather than the other way around?’

Hennessy goes, ‘We knew he wouldn’t be an honest broker. He has too many principles. And he’s too in love with your wife.’

I focking knew it.

The old man goes, ‘Fianna Fáil and Fine Gael have already agreed to work together! As a matter of fact, they’re going to announce it this afternoon! A minority Fine Gael Government supported by Fianna Fáil! It won’t last two years! Which gives us time to build up even more support! And when the Government collapses – as it inevitably will – we will be in a position to deliver what we really want.’

I’m like, ‘And what’s that?’

‘An overall majority, of course.’

Kennet suddenly comes running into the pub. He’s like, ‘The j … j … j … j …’

‘What’s he trying to say?’ the old man goes.

It’s like an episode of Skippy.

‘The j … j … j … j … j … jewer doddy is arthur arriving at a v … v … v … v … verdict,’ he goes.

We’re up off our stools, across the road and back in the court before he even finishes the last word. It takes about three minutes, in other words.

There’s a definite buzz in the room. Someone in the press gallery, who obviously expects the news to be bad for the old dear, leans forwards and asks the old man, ‘Will there be an appeal?’

The old man goes, ‘Good Lord! Let’s have the verdict first, shall we?’

The old dear is escorted in by the same two screws who’ve brought her in every day of the trial. She blows a kiss at the old man and then one at me.

I pretend not to notice.

The judge walks in and we all stand up. Then about two minutes later, the jury arrive in. None of them looks at the old dear and none of them looks in our direction either. I can’t tell if that’s a good or bad thing. It’s just something I happen to notice?

The judge bangs his little hammer. He loves that focking thing. Delma puts her hand on my shoulder and goes, ‘This is it, Ross! Let’s hope our prayers are answered!’

Ronan arrives just in time and I make space for him between me and the old man. I notice he’s got a massive Denis Hickie on his neck. I’m wondering did Shadden give it to him. And if not, how did he explain it to her?

‘Soddy Ine late,’ he goes.

I’m there, ‘You haven’t missed anything.’

I grab his hand. He grabs my old man’s hand. My old man grabs Hennessy’s hand.

The foreman of the jury is told to stand up. It’s a woman.

‘In the case of the State versus Fionnuala O’Carroll-Kelly,’ the judge goes, ‘do you find the defendant, Fionnuala O’Carroll-Kelly, guilty or not guilty?’

The woman doesn’t hesitate.

She goes, ‘Not guilty.’

The old dear screams. Tiffany-Blue screams. You wouldn’t blame her either. Not only has the old dear got off, she’s going to walk away with the two billion snots that she would have otherwise inherited? The old man shouts, ‘Fiat justitia et pereat mundus!’ before hugging me, then Ronan, then Hennessy.

‘Thank you!’ the old dear is saying to the jury. ‘Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!’

Tiffany-Blue screams, ‘I’m going to fucking kill you! You fucking murdering bitch!’ and she jumps the rail at the front of the public gallery and it takes five Gords and one Lady Gorda to hold her back.

I notice O’Maonaigh just staring at me with a look of, like, disappointment on his face. And that’s when I know that it was my doing. It was my testimony that basically swung it for her.

Outside the court, everyone is saying pretty much the same thing? The old dear goes, ‘She looked at you, Ross! The foreman of the jury, when she said, “Not guilty!” she looked at you!’ and she hugs me for, like, the five hundredth time.

Then we’re all herded in front of the TV cameras. The old man, the old dear, Ronan, who’s trying to hide the hickie from the camera, then me in my dorky clothes – Luke Fitzgerald is going to destroy me if he happens to see the news tonight – with all of the old dear’s friends and the old man’s supporters standing behind us. Vivienne Traynor is doing the interview. She asks the old dear how she feels.

‘Happy,’ the old dear goes. ‘Relieved. Vindicated. All of those things. And grateful – to the jury, to my wonderful family and friends. My beautiful, beautiful son, Ross, who’s been my rock. My ex-husband, Charles, a dear, dear friend who never for one moment believed I was capable of doing what I was accused of doing. Now, I just want to go home and pour myself a nice, long gin –’

It always comes back to gin.

‘– and tonic.’

She won’t go near the tonic.

Vivienne turns to the old man then. ‘Charles O’Carroll-Kelly,’ she goes, ‘there are reports this afternoon that Fine Gael and Fianna Fáil may be on the verge of an historic deal, with Micheál Martin agreeing to support a minority Government led by Enda Kenny. How much did the trial distract you from the job of trying to form a Government?’

The old man goes, ‘I said it from day one that Fionnuala’s trial was an attempt by the Establishment to destroy our movement! And I made it clear, too, that winning her freedom was my number one priority! From what you’re saying, it sounds like the Establishment has achieved its goal of preventing New Republic from leading the next Government! But this I will also add – people have long memories! But I don’t wish to dwell on any of that now. I want to go home with my dear, dear friend Fionnuala and celebrate this wonderful verdict!’

Enda Kenny is set to be elected as Taoiseach when the Dáil meets next week. That’s according to the news. He’s done a deal with Fianna Fáil and a handful of independent TDs, thwarting the ambitions of Charles O’Carroll-Kelly and his New Republic porty, who had promised, amongst other things, to take Ireland out of the European Union and to build a wall around Cork.

I switch off the radio and I drive the last fifteen minutes home in silence. I’m thinking about the kids. About Brian, Johnny and Leo, but – can I be honest? – I’m mostly thinking about Honor. And that’s me being biased. People who tell you that they love all their children exactly the same are lying. I miss them all, but I miss Honor most of all.

And maybe that’s a rugby thing.

She phoned me an hour ago and she went, ‘I’m going to focking kill him!’

Of course, I had to laugh. I was like, ‘Are you talking about Sorcha’s old man?’

She went, ‘I’m going to drop something in his bath – like Fionnuala did to that old man.’

It’s kind of funny – the old dear turning out to be a role model for her.

‘Honor,’ I went, ‘you heard the verdict. Your grandmother didn’t actually do it?’

And she was like, ‘I still think she did.’

‘Look, maybe hold off on murdering him for a little while longer. I’m pretty confident of getting a result in court as well.’

Hennessy couriered a letter to Sorcha this morning, telling her that I intended to challenge the existing court order and seek joint custody in front of a judge with known sympathies towards rugby. Honor promised not to kill Sorcha’s old man until all legal avenues have been exhausted.

I’m just pulling into the driveway when my phone all of a sudden rings? At first I think it might be Honor again. Except it’s not. It ends up being Shadden. She’s like, ‘Howiya?’

I’m there, ‘Hey, Shadden, how are the wedding plans coming along?’

There’s, like, two or three seconds of silence on the other end. Then she goes, ‘Is Ronan dare wit you?’

I’m there, ‘Ronan? Er, yeah, no, he is actually.’

He’s obviously up to his tricks again.

She goes, ‘He ditn’t come home last neet – arthur coddidge.’

I’m there, ‘Yeah, no, I met him for a few pints out this direction. He, er, crashed here – on account of him being gee-eyed.’

‘Is he besoyut you? Put me onto um.’

‘Bear in mind, you’re breaking up, Shadden.’

‘Gib the phowun to um, Rosser.’

‘I’m in a bad area.’

I’m not. I’m on Torquay Road.

‘Rosser, put me onto um reet –’

And that’s when I hang up on her and switch my phone off. That’s my next job, after I get access to my children again – to persuade Ronan not to get married.

One miracle at a time, as Father Fehily used to say.

I put my key in the front door and open it. It’s, like, weird being back here living with the old pair again. But then I see something that suddenly makes it – this is my word – doubly weird? And what I see is the old dear’s shoes discorded on the hallway floor and her tights in a ball on the stairs. And I’m thinking, oh no – not again.

You’ve got to be focking kidding me!

I tiptoe up the stairs and I find more items of her clothing – then one or two items of his. Including his focking Y-fronts! Then I hear it, through the door of what used to be their bedroom. My old pair going at it like dinosaurs fighting.

She’s going, ‘Slow down, Charles! I think I bruised my tailbone doing that last thing you asked me to do!’ and I actually think I’m going to get sick.

And then I hear him go, ‘Let me take another one of these little blue pills that Hennessy gave me!’

In the name of all that is focking decent!

I tip downstairs, my plan being to fill a bucket with water and literally fock it over the two of them. But then their noises grow louder and louder and I think, no, I can’t actually stay in the gaff and listen to my old pair humping themselves hoarse. Which is why I decide to step outside. I head for the air-raid shelter at the bottom of the gorden, which seems somehow, I don’t know, appropriate in the circumstances.

I haven’t been in there for years. I got it done up for me and Ronan to use as a sort of, like, man cave, but then Ronan met Shadden and he stopped coming to Foxrock as much. I can see him spending many nights in here when Shadden finds out what he’s really like.

The front of the shelter is all, like, covered over with bushes and I end up having to pull them back to find the actual door. I still have the key on my key ring. I put it in the keyhole and I turn it but the door won’t budge, and I end up having to put my shoulder against it to get it open.

It gives way and in I go. There’s, like, a seriously musty smell in the place. It’s also, like, pitch dork. I feel around for the light switch. Then I find it and flick it and the room is suddenly bright. I’m looking around. It’s just as me and Ronan left it.

And that’s when I spot it. I end up getting such a fright that – I’m going to admit something here – I end up literally pissing my chinos. Because there, on top of the pool table, all dirty and blackened, is the weapon my old dear used to murder Ari Samuels.

It’s a two-bor electric heater.