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was no longer appealing, so I caught the train at 11 a.m. No trolley service; I think I missed the Ukrainian. Now I was able to read and had been anticipating High Life by Matthew Stokoe. Started it as we hit the outskirts of Dublin and never looked up till we reached Athenry.
    It was Chandler on heroin, Hammet on crack, James M. Cain with a blowtorch, and it matched my mood with a wild ferocity. The writing was a knuckleduster to the brain, a chainsaw to the gut. It not so much rocked as walloped the blood with a rush of pure amphetamine. The prose sang and screamed along every page, a cesspit of broken lives illuminated with a taste of dark euphoria. I felt downright feverish. How often is a novel like a literary blow to the system? I felt Jim Thompson would have killed for this. If James Ellroy had indeed abandoned the crime genre, then here was his dark heir.
    I closed the book, feeling I’d run a marathon. Not once had I thought of Stewart or his sister. The train was crossing the bridge over Lough Atalia, and as I stared out at the bay, dark clouds hanging on the horizon, I didn’t know if I had a sense of homecoming. I think you require a modicum of peace for that. I went into Roches, passed the booze counter real fast and bought some groceries. Decided to leave the Greek yoghurts and Lemsips alone. I was healthy enough. As I paid at the till, I looked up and there was the blond young guy again. He eyed me for a moment and then was gone. Put it down to coincidence.
    Mrs Bailey was at reception, said,
    “Welcome back.”
    I reached in my bag, pulled out a packet, handed it over. Her eyes lit, she exclaimed,
    “I love presents.”
    She tore off the paper, went,
    “Bewley’s fudge, oh my, they give me teethaches.”
    “Oops.”
    “Oh no, I’ll be delighted to have the ache. Lets you know you’re alive.”
    I left her chewing energetically, surprised she had real teeth. I went to my room, checked my bookcase and, as I anticipated, not a single volume of Synge.
    Looked at the Sacred Heart calendar and the day’s entry read:
    “Don’t be enslaved by wealth.”
    I’d do my best.

 
    “Working a case is like living a life. You could be going along with your head down, pulling the plow as best you can, but then something happens and the world isn’t what you thought it was anymore. Suddenly the way you see everything is different, as if the world has changed color, hiding things that were there before and revealing things you otherwise would not have seen.”
    Robert Crais, L.A. Requiem

 
    Next morning, I was reading an interview with Marc Evans, the director of My Little Eye , the classy Brit horror movie. A line he said triggered all types of memories:
    “Our cameras aren’t showing you where the action is, they’re following it.”
    I sat and thought about that, why it had such an impact. Was it some skewed metaphor for my life or simply a smart perspective? I made some coffee—had moved up to real coffee—yeah, beans, filters, the whole nine yards. What I liked best was the aroma: just let it cook, simmer and allow that smell bounce off the wall. I never ever tired of the sensation. Early mornings, if you get down to Griffin’s Bakery, they make a loaf called a grinder. Aw fuck, this is bread to trade your soul for, but the true bliss is that as you approach, the tang of fresh baking permeates the upper part of the street. It’s beyond comfort, beyond analysis.
    Real coffee comes from the same neighbourhood. Took me a while to readjust. When you’ve drunk instant all your life, you are seriously fucked. The real thing is too much; you can’t get your taste around it. Plus it packs one hell of a punch: two cups and you’re off your feet. All my years of caffeine, it was purely to punctuate the hangovers.
    Drank it and chased it with cig number one. This five cigs a day gig was not working, but I’d worry about that later. I dressed in a white shirt, black cords, checked myself in the mirror.