Cold Eye of Heaven, The by Christine Dwyer Hickey Page A

from one of the lads.’ He’s about to get up when the door opens and Tony comes in. ‘Your mother…’ Farley begins, ‘she’s—’
    â€˜Tony, I was mugged.’
    Tony eyes pop. ‘Christ, Ma, are you alright? Did you call the cops?’
    â€˜I told the garda on beat in Henry Street, yes. They took the whole bag, everything in it.’
    â€˜Did you cancel the cards?’
    â€˜Not yet.’
    â€˜That was the first thing you should have done, Ma. Right come on, I’ll do it now.’
    He stands beside Farley and waits for him to vacate his father’s seat. Farley gets up and moves away from the desk.
    â€˜And Tony,’ she continues, ‘the cross and chain was in the side pocket, you know, from when I was a bridesmaid for—’ She breaks down now. Farley takes a step towards her, then stops.
    â€˜Alright, Ma, alright. Just let me cancel the cards. The car is up in Jervis Street, I’ll go up and get it, then drive you home.’
    â€˜I was just about to go out, get a taxi,’ Farley says.
    â€˜I’m not havin her going home in a taxi on her own,’ Tony says.
    â€˜Ah no, of course not. I’ll go with her.’
    â€˜And why would you do that?’
    â€˜I only thought.’
    â€˜You only thought what, Farley?’
    â€˜Well, by the time you get your car out the car park and drive round in the traffic, we’d be halfway home.’
    â€˜Ah, stop it,’ Kathleen says, ‘stop fussin the pair of you. I’ll be grand in the taxi on me own. Your da will be home shortly. I’ll be fine.’
    â€˜That’s right. Da’ll be home. Da’ll look after you.’
    Noreen is standing at the door, mug of tea in her hand. ‘Look, why don’t I go with you, Mrs Slowey? I’ll wait with you till Frank gets home.’
    â€˜Would you? O thanks, Noreen.’
    She stands. He watches her tighten her coat around her, slip her hands in and out of her pockets, pull up her collar, roll it down again, fidget with a scarf. ‘Me hands,’ she says, ‘I don’t know where to be putting them.’
    She moves past Noreen out to the hall. Noreen steps in, hands Farley the mug of tea. ‘Here,’ she says, ‘stick your gob around that.’
    He can’t get near the courts, what with the cameras, the television vans, the amount of journalists hanging around. There’s photographers perch -ed along the Liffey wall and another standing on the roof of a van.
    Between Catherine Nevin’s trial and Gilligan’s extradition, he knows this could go on all day. He decides to try the side entrance in Chancery Place. Into a squeeze of black cloaks and brief-clutching elbows, he tries getting up the steps and he feels like shouting into the shove and push of it, ‘Ah, what do you have to do to get into this place, for fuck sake – murder someone?’
    Farley gives up. He thinks about going round the back way, even walks as far as the corner, but sees the police have cordoned off the entrance. He could tell them he needs to go in for the purpose of work, but he doesn’t feel like standing there explaining himself. And besides he’s forgotten his file, so there’s nothing really for him to do when he does get in. Except hang around and look like a spare waiting on someone to talk to him.
    He stands on the street corner painted in shadow. Across the way, the two markets send out their own personal odours – fish gut and ammonia from one; the boozy smell of overripe fruit from the other. Down the waya young man splashed in sunshine loads the back of a lorry with sacks of spuds. A girl sits on the wall outside River House, leaning back on her hands, face tipped to the sun. But on this side of the street the chilled spring air passes through his clothes, then through his skin, before settling down on his bones. He doesn’t want to go back to work. Not yet. But if