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

by Caimh McDonnell

“Can I ask a question?” she said, and he felt himself sag. He knew what was coming. “Why do people say that?” he said. “A – you just have, and B – nobody has ever accepted no as an answer.” “Alright, no need to get all arsey. I was just making conversation.” She flicked her ash towards the drain and hugged herself a little tighter. They both took another drag, in silent agreement that he was an arsehole.

“She means a two-way mirror, like you see in the cop shows on the telly.” Stewart looked up and smiled at Nurse Conroy. “We don’t have them I’m afraid.” “Oh.” She looked disappointed. “So,” continued Stewart, “if you fancy throwing a headbutt into Detective Wilson, I’m not paying attention and nobody else can see you.”

Chairman Meow had dropped her most recent victim and then stretched out about six feet in front of him, like she was considering a mid-afternoon snooze. She was the cat belonging to Old Man Maguire over the road and she was, even by feline standards, an absolute bastard. Every time Paul had seen her over the last three years, she had been carrying some poor dead creature in her jaws.

Brigit pushed a green jumper towards him. He spread it out on his knees to look at the design on the front. It featured the grinning face of a reindeer. Paul guessed the designer had been going for joyful for the creature’s expression and just over-shot horribly. A ‘here’s Johnny’ demented grin sat beneath wild eyes. It would have made a tremendous warning poster for the dangers of cocaine.

“Phil, I need to speak to your uncle.” “You’ll be doing well, he’s dead.” “Oh, sorry.” “It was last year. He’d a dodgy ticker for a while, conked out on the job.” Paul, just placing the sling back over his shoulder, stopped and looked at Phil. “Do you mean?” Phil looked back at him as he again replayed what he’d just said in his head. “Ughhh – Lord no, not – ‘on the job’.” Phil threw in a couple of hip thrusts, to show he’d belatedly understood the mental image he’d created. “I mean, he was robbing a house out in Skerries. He liked to keep his hand in.” Legend had it that Paddy Nellis had been the finest housebreaker in Ireland, before he’d moved into other areas. He used to joke that he’d been in more houses than Phil and Kirsty combined. “That’s terrible,” said Paul. “Ah, it’s probably how he’d have liked to go. Heart attack, right there on somebody else’s kitchen floor, a rucksack full of their antiques on his back. Nice couple, they came to the funeral.”

“Ah – sorry about all the death. Husband was a mucking lunatic, God rest him. Never met an animal he didn’t want to shoot. I thought it would only be appropriate to have him stuffed and put in the hall too, but apparently there’s rules. Tea?”

“How’d you sleep?” “Fine. You?” “Fine. How’s the shoulder?” “Fine.” “Good.” “Yep.” “Excellent.” Dorothy sat at the breakfast table, her head turning back and forth, as if watching a tremendously dull game of tennis. “Good God,” she said, “if it’ll help break the tension, I could shoot one of you?”