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

he hasn’t got work to go to, where has he got? Farley pulls himself away from this thought. His eye falls on Hughes’s pub. And he imagines it inside; the soft glow of lamplight, the warm, quiet corners where the few lone drinkers at this time of day sit behind cover of newspapers. He crosses the road and pushes against the door. A belch of sullied air comes out to meet him: Bovril, cigarettes, porter, whiskey. He feels slightly elated. Something he hasn’t done for years is go into a pub during the day for no other pur pose than to drink.
    He makes his way back to the office the long way round; from Hughes’s to Slattery’s, the Oval, the Bachelor: a pint in each one, till the afternoon has crumbled away and it’s only by chance he happens to notice it’s nearly time for his meeting with Tony. He can still hold his drink anyway, as he tells his pleased self in the mirror of the jacks of the Ormonde Hotel. And he can still remember all the old tricks, like plenty of grub to line the stomach and to keep the smell of gargle at bay; toasted cheese to stick to your gut; a ham sanger or two smeared with mustard; peanuts. And a few peppermints on the way back up the quays; sucked not chewed, because chewing makes the smell too obvious and also stings the fuck out of your tongue. He thinks of an oulfella, used to drink in around Queen Street, who kept a rotten orange in the cubbyhole of his car, and any time he was stopped by a garda checkpoint, he’d take a bite out of it so when he rolled down the window it smelled like he had the most God-awful halitosis and the garda, of course, would immediately back away and wave him on. Farley finds a chuckle bubbling in his throat at the thought of this, the orange, the oulfella, the recoiling garda. He bites down on his lip but the giddiness stays. He has to stop at an antique shop, pretend to be allinterested in the statue of a Red Indian outside it while he takes out his hanky, blows his nose into it, pushing the laugh out along with the snots and then literally wiping the grin off his face.
    On the way in he meets Noreen coming out. ‘Jesus, where were you?’
    â€˜Ah now, if I can’t go on the hop on me last day, Noreen.’
    â€˜Your man’s waiting inside. I’m off to see if I can get Jim settled, I’ll be back later. Now it mightn’t be for too long, Farley – you’ll understand?’
    He nods and kisses her on the face. Noreen starts. ‘Have you drink on you?’ she laughs.
    â€˜Go on now, you loved it,’ he says.
    She goes down the steps.
    â€˜Noreen!’ He says it a little too loudly.
    â€˜What? Jesus, what are you roarin for?’
    â€˜O sorry, I was just like wondering, how was Kathleen after?’
    â€˜Alright. A bit upset. Over the cross and chain, mostly.’
    â€˜Ah yea. She would be. She…’
    â€˜Farley?’
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜Take my advice now and shut up about Kathleen.’
    â€˜What are you on about? I was only askin.’
    â€˜O, never mind. Look, just go in and see Tony. And here, Farley, best maybe just listen to what he says. Say as little as you can get away with saying, if you know what I mean. And good luck.’
    â€˜But about Kathleen, I was only—’
    â€˜Farley – let me put it this way – have you ever discussed Kathleen with me?’
    â€˜No. No I haven’t.’
    â€˜That’s right, and you don’t have to either. People aren’t stupid, you know.’ She pauses, puts her hand on his arm, ‘Look, I know you’d never do anything.’
    â€˜No, no of course I wouldn’t.’
    â€˜But still and all, Farley – you know?’
    Then she looks at the sky and trots off up the quay.
    But he can’t seem to help saying it to Tony. ‘Your ma? How was she after?’
    â€˜Yea, grand, yea, ta. Sit down, Farley, rest your legs there. Been out and