John Brady - A stone of the heart

"Paris?" asked Herlighy. "Why Paris?"

Minogue smiled and scratched behind one ear.

"Oh there's a sort of a story to it… do you want to…?"

Herlighy said he did. They walked on under the trees, Herlighy silent, listening to Minogue.

When tired, Herlighy often had an image of himself sitting in his office here in a country on the periphery of Europe, trying to sort out the Byzantine web of sophistry and evasion. Sometimes he had to remind himself that he, Herlighy, was searching, himself. He wondered if Minogue would visit again. Herlighy put the packet of cigarettes back in his pocket. So Minogue was ready for more. More what? Another drag on the cigarette reminded him of his envy.

Minogue had walked around Dublin on Friday, from church to church, museum to gallery. He had sat in the chill caves of cathedrals for a rest, unable to pray.

There had been nothing in Allen's car. It had been taken apart: nothing at all. They didn't want to charge him with anything, just dump him. All a mess, dump it back on Dublin.

Agnes McGuire had died early on Friday morning, letting go and casting off for where she'd not be let down again, Minogue thought. Did Allen know yet? And Loftus, now silent and remote, the little Napoleon, the one-eyed king, did he care? Minogue had not run fast enough or far enough. Again and again he saw the soldiers pulling two out of the car that night, then Allen's grey face in the back of the van.

Instead of a Mass Card, Minogue bought a card with a copy of Walter Osborne's 'Scene in the Phoenix Park' on it. He got them to use it as a Mass Card in Clarendon Street. He thought about going to visit Mick Roche, but he felt he should wait.

Walking through Trinity College, nothing had changed except the film of suspicion and resentment which had come across his vision. Gowned lecturers billowed past him in Front Square. Minogue turned away from his path and wondered if he should tear up the card.