A Man With One of Those Faces (Dublin Trilogy publication order, #1; Dublin Trilogy chronological order, #6)

by Caimh McDonnell

Jesus may’ve died for your sins, but his ma was the one who was willing to listen to your excuses.

“Just so I know, where is a good place to get shot?” He’d not yet realised that Dr Sinha was not at home to sarcasm. “Gluteus maximus – most definitely. Gunshot, stab wound – if you get the option, go ass every time.”

In the meantime, he was dotting the ‘I’s and crossing the ‘T’s, waiting for the S and the H to show up.

At times like this, it was hard for him to run from the suspicion that he might be an idiot.

“What’re you saying?” Stewart asked. “I’m saying something here stinks worse than a wino’s arse on Sunday.”

“Lynn said she was one of those maniac depressive types.” “Manic?” guessed Brigit. “What?” asked Phil. “Never mind.”

If there was one part of the job he wouldn’t miss, it was definitely the smell. Normally, when he’d been called to a dead body, he’d have brought the tin of Vick’s from his desk drawer. A little on the top lip usually took the edge off the worst of it. The ripe ones were the foulest. The ones long enough dead for decomposition to have really kicked in.