He was looking forward to getting back to Galway tomorrow. He had a couple of days’ station duty and from next Monday he was rostered for a week of community liaison, giving talks at schools and community centres, a duty he enjoyed.
Some yards away, on a well-lit stretch of street, a young man in slacks and a rugby shirt was glumly pissing against the shuttered front door of a small shop that sold candles. Mills began ticking off the crimes the young man might be charged with.
Public nuisance, damage to private property, behaviour likely to lead to a breach of the peace
– and if he really wanted to screw up the kid’s life he could add indecent exposure and risk getting him put on the sex offenders’ register.
Mills turned a corner and walked down to the Liffey. There was a burst of cheerful noise from some young people on the boardwalk across the river. Mills decided that he wasn’t going back to the pub. He’d walk to his hotel, let the air clear his head, be fast asleep by midnight.
For a midweek evening, O’Connell Bridge was busy, some people heading home, more moving from one attraction to another, couples linked, groups of youngsters dolled up and gelled for action. There was a buzz about the capital these days, no denying that. Something in the air, exciting and dangerous, as though at any moment there might be an eruption of merriment or savagery.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
The Midnight Choir
benefited greatly from the attentions of James Gurbutt, at Harvill Secker, and copy editor Nick Austin.
My wife Julie Lordan and my friends Evelyn Bracken and Pat Brennan read the first draft and, as ever, made very helpful suggestions – as did my brother Tom Daly, who also set me right on cars, while Michael Howlett helped me sort out the ischaemics from the hypertrophics.
For the past eleven years, no one has done more than Cathleen Kerrigan to improve my storytelling skills.
Many thanks to all.