Cold Eye of Heaven, The Read Online Free PDF

shouting in her face. Gone, gone, what is it about you oulones blaming everything on the snow?
    â€˜Well, right so,’ he says, turning away. She puts out her hand to stop him. ‘Will the son, the one who’s abroad – will he be coming back? Where’s this he is again?’
    â€˜India, last I heard,’ Farley says.
    â€˜India!’ she goes. ‘God, what would possess you to go to a place like that?’ Then she puts her mittened hand over her mouth and lets out a horrified laugh.
    â€˜I better be…’ Farley takes a step backwards.
    â€˜Of course,’ Mr Hardiman says. ‘Anyway, our condolences.’
    Farley wants to tell him that he neither wants nor needs his condolences, that any grieving he did for Slowey, he did ten years ago.
    â€˜Thanks for that,’ Frank says and turns to the wife. ‘Goodbye, Mrs Cardigan.’
    He hears his own mistake, stands blinking at it for a moment, but doesn’t seem to know how to correct it. Cardigan?
    â€˜I mean, Mrs, Mrs…’
    He sees husband and wife exchange a glance.
    â€˜Are you going up to the house?’ she asks
    â€˜Eh no. Not yet. Later maybe. A Mass card and that; flowers.’
    â€˜Still, it’ll be nice for the family to have you there.’
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜I said it’ll be nice—’
    â€˜Yea. O yea,’ Farley says, turning away into a spume of his own icy breath.
    The owner of the dry-cleaner’s calls him ‘a senior’ – a title that always makes him feel like he’s back in primary school. If she’s serving someone else when he comes into the shop, she’ll hurl over her shoulder, ‘There’s a senior needs serving out here!’ And the girl with the goat’s eyes will come out from the back, with the separate book they keep for seniors snuggled between one floppy tit and a plump upper arm. In the senior book they don’t write down your name; they give you a number instead.
    Today, the owner is on the phone, fingers lightly tossing the top layer of hair the colour of margarine. Beside her, a pile of clothes waiting to be sorted: trousers, skirts, a red satin dress. Farley waits at the counter, staring into the stains of other people’s Christmases. The owner puts down the phone and looks at him. ‘You know now that today is not a senior day – you are aware of that? And what that means now is that I’m going to have to charge you full price – is that alright with you? Because if you prefer like, you can come back next senior day which is Tuesday?’
    She talks down her nose, voice like a bagpipe’s drone. She speaks slowly and louder than necessary and he responds in a put-on telephone voice. Farley isn’t quite sure why he does this, except that she’s one of those culchies with notions about themselves who love looking down their noses on a Dublin accent.
    â€˜I’m aware of that, yes, thank you, ma’am.’
    â€˜Well, so long now as you know.’
    â€˜I was wondering if I might possibly have it for this afternoon?’
    â€˜Well now, you can forget
that
for a start!’
    â€˜O.’
    â€˜We’re out the door here between the post-Christmas rush and I’ve two inside off with the so-called flu.’
    â€˜Well, what about tomorrow morning then – if that would be con -venient?’
    â€˜Are you joking me now or what?’
    â€˜It’s for a funeral,’ he says and for some reason feels ashamed for mentioning it.
    The phone rings and she reaches out for it, leaving one hand behind splayed on the counter. He cranes to see into the back room, wondering if the girl with the goat’s eyes is in there. His sight is still a bit wobbly but he notices this is only when he lifts his eyes to the middle distance. Little bursts of minute crystals, rotating on the air. He peers under this display and his sight begins to clear again. There now, he