Cold Eye of Heaven, The by Christine Dwyer Hickey Read Free Book Online Page A

opposite – am I right? I mean, they’d take a statue in out of the cold before they’d give a fuck about another human being.’
    Farley stands gulping at the shock of his own little speech.
    The man puts a hand on his arm. ‘Relax, Farl. He’s not the only priest in the world – is he? There’s a church in Thomas Street, you know. Churches all over the city.’
    â€˜Sorry, sorry. It’s just… I didn’t mean to sound disrespectful but you know?’
    â€˜You’re upset, Farl. Don’t worry. It’s understandable; you’ve just lost your pal. Look, do whatever it is you have to do, but try get a little rest – wha? God knows you worked for the man long enough.’
    â€˜I was a partner in that firm, you know.’
    â€˜That right?’
    â€˜Yea, I was made a partner. I didn’t just work for the man, you know. You don’t believe me?’
    â€˜I do, of course. I just never heard that before.’
    â€˜Well, it’s true. A partner. For years. And not one of them. Not one of them would bother. Well. Never mind all that.’
    â€˜Look, when you’re finished in town, get yourself home and have a snooze by the fire. I’ll tell Jackie you were asking for him and see you at the funeral – right?’
    â€˜Yea. O, bye now. And tell Timmo I was, you know, asking for him too.’
    The man looks at him funny, then gives him a half salute and pushes off with his bicycle. Farley watches till he’s out of sight.
    He crosses the road, heads towards the bus stop and wonders – whoever Timmo’s son is, he must be well in with the Sloweys all the same, if he was thinking of going up to the house. But at the same timehe couldn’t be
that
well in, if he didn’t know about the falling out. Timmo? Timmo’s son? And who’s this Jackie is again?
    The bus is jammers. He’s sitting upstairs, as he always does because he likes looking down on other people’s gardens, giving them marks out of ten for appearance. He’s sitting upstairs in the solid, stuffy air, the windows fogged with the breath of strangers and some little bollix down the back smoking a cigarette – but who’s going to say a word to him? One vacant seat on the right, two thirds of the way down. Farley goes to it, then settles himself in by the window, Clery’s bag on his lap; the shape of the shoe, the corner of the Mass card – everything in order. Grand. Around him people are talking into mobile phones. Mobile phones are beeping at people. One girl roaring at the top of her voice: ‘So I just said to him, yea? Is that righ’-is-it? Because if you fucken tink I’m puttin up with that you can go and fuck right off and you and your scabby bleedin oulone.’
    Farley tries to remember when this started to happen – people shouting on the bus, letting everyone know their business; turning their minds inside out, broadcasting every thought in their heads.
    Near the front of the bus, two large African women, startlingly dressed, sit across the aisle from each other. As they speak, huge hats like big paper bags plonked on top of their heads, nod softly to each other; flax yellow to scarlet red. That’s how it should be. A quiet conversation, a little bit shy, a little bit open; let people eavesdrop because they want to, and not because they’ve no choice.
    He stretches up to open a window, glancing around as he does so, as if he should be asking someone’s permission. A squirt of clean, sharp air quenches his face. The woman sitting in front runs her hand over the back of her neck, gives a little shudder and tuts. Farley pretends not to notice. He sits down again, rubs a viewing screen into the steam on the window and looks out. He wants the bus to slow down a bit so he can look at the gardens. But the bus, too full to stop, is barrelling along. All he can see isrows of houses jigging loosely by,