“In Eyre Square the boy Victor waited, watching the front entrance of the Great Southern Hotel. The bells of the Abbey church struck 2:00 am in the rain-solaced silence.”
Galway City, late July—when dawn comes early—5am, only twenty minutes off. All was calm. All was bright. It reminded me of something . . .
My brother Sid was a fire starter who started early. He was twelve. He was precocious. He was an igniter atrocious. He was a pyromaniac poet laureate . . .
Kelleher piloted the small motorboat out of Mullaghmore’s famous stone harbor to establish an alibi. McMahon and McGirl, the IRA men, sat stiffly in the back . . .
It was a rainy day in Galway. Nothing new—Galway and rain are synonymous, along with fog, mist, hailstones, slippery footpaths, pneumonia . . .
Dusk was falling on a high summer day in Galway City, a place that claimed me but never loved me . . .
In New York? Join us TONIGHT at 6:00 PM to celebrate the release of Belfast Noir!
The new teacher, Mister Moran, was on an exchange program from New York. Our school was a nickname maelstrom—Ghoul, Moose, Bull, Scab, Pox-face, Arse-brain. He was Moron straight off. He got off easy. You should have seen him . . .