The Day That Never comes (The Dublin Trilogy Book 2) by Caimh McDonnell

Author:Caimh McDonnell [McDonnell, Caimh]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780995507531
Publisher: McFori Ink
Published: 2017-01-23T06:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty-Three

Sunday 6 February 2000 – Afternoon

Jarleth Court stared into his pint of lager, watching the bubbles fizzle to the surface and then disappear. Truth be told, he wasn't normally much of a drinker. Still, when his phone had rung at lunchtime on a sleepy Sunday, tearing his life down around him, drink had felt appropriate. It must be buried somewhere in his Irish DNA, the belief that alcohol can somehow help. In a way it had been a relief. The upside of the worst thing possible happening, was that it couldn't happen again. There would be a certain freedom in disgrace.

A woman he recognised from one of his constituency clinics walked by and shot a shy wave in his direction. He knew a lot of people in the pub and more of them knew him. He'd been a fixture in local politics for twenty years. Ten as a councillor, before moving up to four as an independent TD. Then they'd redrawn the boundary and split his hardcore support down the middle. It was decried in the press as dirty politics. The main parties played dumb and pretended it was all a quirk of geography. Still, last time out he'd given it a damn good shot anyway. His opponents had spent ten times as much and he'd still run them close. Then he'd gone back onto the Council and redoubled his efforts. If anything, the whole thing had made him even more popular – the working class hero who terrifies the establishment, that's what they'd called him. That'd change now.

A man whose name he couldn't recall patted his arm on his way back to the main bar from the loos, the roar of the Super Sunday football calling him home. The lounge was relatively quiet, blessed as it was with an absence of the big screens that seemed to be ubiquitous in pubs these days. There was a big football tournament in the summer though. Marla the landlady had proudly told him how they were getting a load more screens put in, and a little bit more silence would die.

People had mostly let him be for the last few hours. None of the usual polite chat before bringing up a little thing they needed help with. Maybe his body language was sending off the vibe that now was not the time. He'd sat there alone and steadily drank, still he was nowhere nearer the oblivion he sought.

The stool beside him squeaked softly as it was drawn back from the bar and a bulky form in a sheepskin coat plonked itself down. Court didn't look up, he didn't need to.

"Do you never take that bleedin' coat off Bunny? Ye'll not feel the benefit."

"It cuts down on ironing, Councillor."

"Does it now?" Court picked up his half empty pint and slurped at it. Bunny waved at Anto the barman, pulling him away from flirting with a couple of soccer widows at the other end of the bar.

"A pint of Arthur's," said Bunny, "and same again for himself.

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