Fanahan was down, depressed some would call it, but
since he did not believe depression existed: for him: he was just
down.
He was wearing his dark funeral suit. In fact it was
also his best suit, a recent purchase that fitted him. Not a fitted,
bespoke suit – an off-the-peg selection. He always considered he
was lucky that his build was fairly average, if anything can be
fairly average, and he could buy a suit that either fitted him, or
fitted him with minimum free alterations. Free alterations? Bullshit!
When he called back to collect this suit pants that had been reduced,
tucked in, at the waist, he threw his eye on a nice slim fit jeans
and a smart looking shirt, and a white under-shirt and a pair of
slip-on shoes. The ensemble was charged to his card and the free
alterations call-back added three hundred lids or so to his bill. All
in all, suit and ensemble, he dropped nearly a grand with Humphrey
his personal shopper. That was how he introduced himself – a bloody
new title for an uppity shop assistant.
Milo had died. Or to be precise Milo had drank himself
to death. This time, in this establishment, with booze left on the
shelves. In other words: he failed to drink his Dublin Pub dry, as he
had with the other ones. He previously got big money for selling land
at hefty prices, to developers. He than went into the Vintner
business, buying pubs, and becoming his own best and long time
customer. “I was right,” Fanahan muttered, when he got the
news,“this time the liver packed up before the supply ran out.”
Cremation
was not a real funeral, a real internment. Putting a small box into a
grave was the norm now. Six by four that was what a man deserved, and
six down as well. This undertaker had just bent down and placed the
wooden box covering the urn of ashes, a couple of feet deep.
Give
me a better send off, Fanahan thought. Scatter my ashes over
twenty virgins! Jees! Where would you get twenty virgins today?
Primary School? Grade School? All jail bait? Convents? No not any
more!
“Gerry,
give me another pint and a large brandy chaser. Those photographs on
the wall of the football match. Milo said I could have them after he
was finished with them, For sure that time is now. Take them down and
I'll bring them with me.”
“He didn't say you could have them, he used them to
annoy you – remind you that Cavan beat Galway, in a bleedin' All
Ireland Final, but I don't like them either. So take them out of my
sight. This is a changed Pub from now on. I might even consider
barring some of the customers!”
Grate
Pictures, just great for starting a nice fire in a grate! Bloody Bob
Tyrell, Superintendent Tyrell, the player who won the match. He fell
on his feet! Retired, wrote a memoir and is now a security expert on
the radio and TV spouting on criminal issues. SHITE.
Detective Inspector Shamus Fanahan! Stuck in a policing
rut and not going anywhere fast. No woman, no kids, no prospects and
now – God help us all no best pal. Milo a best pal? Well OK. No pal
at all.
