Sunday, Bloody Sunday

Cowering against the grey concrete of the front stoop as though it knows of the tidings it bears, the morning paper blares its headline, "ANOTHER CAUGHT!" Morbidly interested in which of my men would not be attending future meetings, I take a seat on the stoop and begin to read. Lines cross my face as I scan for a name and find that of a local grocer and friend of Dermod's, Packey White.

Sighing deeply, I shove the paper into my overcoat pocket and rise. Without thinking, I make my way down the street toward McGurk's Bar. I keep my eyes on the ground in front of me as I pass others on the road, not feeling in the mood to talk. Inside, I can feel my heart starting to harden, realizing that I'll have to make an example of a man I've known for almost fifteen years.

Over door of the tavern hangs a deep forest green sign reading simply "McGurk's". Inside, the warm atmosphere of the bar almost makes me forget the troubles of the outside world. Unfortunately, the dark haired man sitting at the bar brings me back to reality and the task at hand.

"Dermod," I murmur to him as I take a seat on the stool next to him. Then to the barkeep, "A pint o' stout."

"Where've ya been? It's nearly nine thirty," Dermod's voice is hollow, not the vibrant tones to which I have become accustomed. He, then, turns to the barkeep, "Another Guiness."

I shrug lightly to him. "Runnin' late." Hearing his order, I take the opportunity to try to lighten my friend's somber mood. "How can ya drink that horse piss, anyhow?"

He doesn't take the bait, though. "I take it you've read the papers?" he asks.

"Aye. It's too bad about Packey."

At this point, our drinks arrive and Dermod takes a long swig of his. "How can you be so fuckin' detached?" he demands of me.

"It's my job, Dermod."

For a time, we drink in silence. My friend's question weighs heavily on my mind. Sometimes, without meaning to, Dermod has a truly deep insight, and somehow, it always catches me off guard.

When I finally polish off the pint, I turn to Dermod. "Let's get this over," I say to him and he nods. Reaching into my pocket, I pull a ten pound note and slap it on the bar.

Without words, we make our way back to my flat. Outside, at the side of the road, my car waits for us, a silent witness. Killian's modest farm is a good drive, an hour or so, outside the city. That time, too, is passed in silence. Perhaps we feel that if we say nothing, the deed won't be quite so bad. Still, as we pull into the long, gravel drive at the edge of the O'Malley property, I can feel Dermod stiffen at my side.

"No car." The silence is broken as, for the first time in nearly an hour, I speak to my companion.

"Pull 'round back. We'll wait."

Hours pass slowly, each second a painful eternity as the morning becomes afternoon, then evening and finally nightfall across the green hills. Long after the last rays of sunlight have dipped below the horizon, two bright headlamps turn into the driveway. Dermod has fallen dead asleep, so I exit the car as quietly as possible, hoping not to awaken him.

A hand grabs my wrist, startling me. "Goin' somewhere?" Dermod asks in irritation.

"You dun need to be there."

"The hell I don't."

"Suit yourself, then."