“never to belong there no more.”

Muttered,

“Get a grip.”

Turned left again and across O’Brien’s Bridge. Saint Patrick’s school looming large and off-white. In my time, the teachers were mostly Patrician Brothers. They wore a green sash like a belt and were very fond of the reed cane. They could lash with impunity and did. At least once a week I staggered home, my legs bruised and battered, welts clearly visible on the bare skin. No one questioned their authority. They walloped the bejaysus out of you, it was simply the norm.

It wasn’t that they were always right, simply that a cowed populace never thought to ask if they might be wrong.

All has changed, utterly. Corporal punishment is illegal. And in a ferocious, ironic turnaround, the teachers were now the ones being bullied.

I had replaced their reeds of punishment with a whole new way of lacerating myself.

Called it Jameson.

Stood there for a moment, thinking,

“If I continued to dig the hole, I was going to need the headstone sooner than expected.”

Always do sober what you said you’d do drunk.

That will keep your mouth shut.

– Irish proverb

I walked down Quay Street, stepped into Cafe Du Journal. Real Irish place, right?

I half hoped I’d run into Vinny from Charlie Byrne’s Bookshop but, no, the place was half empty. I got a corner table, old cop habit, so you can see who’s coming at you. Ordered a double espresso, a large Danish. I had no appetite but figured it would soak up the inevitable Jay. The sugar rush wouldn’t hurt either. Far end of the cafe was a Goth girl. I’ve always had a soft spot for them. They are harmless, do their gig, despite ridicule, and carry a continuous torch for The Cure.

I admire tenacity.

The girl, beneath the white makeup, the black eye shadow, black lipstick, couldn’t have been more than nineteen. She was staring right back at me. She was pretty, in a sort of wounded way; even the Goth stuff couldn’t quite hide that. Her eyes, a deep brown, were boring into mine, so I asked,