Free The Dramatist by Ken Bruen

French kerchief was knotted around his neck. It lent him a raffish air. He gave me an ingratiating smile, his body language assuming the non-threatening pose, said,
    “Good day to you, sir.”
    English accent with a hint of Tyneside. Maybe it was the sunshine, but the rage I’d been nourishing leaked away. I answered,
    “How are you doing?”
    He was delighted. I could see his eyes estimating how much my civility was worth. I got there first, asked,
    “Where are you from?”
    Took him a moment to regroup—money was his primary purpose, but a little banter might increase the tally—then a frown as another thought hit. He asked,
    “You’re not a social worker, are you?”
    I moved my cane to the other hand, said,
    “Hardly.”
    His body relaxed and he sat beside me. The odour from his clothes and body was a potent mix of urine, dirt, misery and Buckfast. I tried not to gag, and he said,
    “I’m from Newcastle.”
    “You and Kevin Keegan.”
    “And Alan Shearer, don’t forget him. He’s a good one, gave me a fiver once to mind his car.”
    “Why did you come to Galway?”
    The question perplexed him. The school called to him, impatience in their tone. He was taking far too long to score. The whole strategy was hit and run. I didn’t really care why he’d come, but it was now vital to him. He screwed his eyes, then,
    “I heard the government gives money for everything. If you have dogs, you can even claim for them.”
    I decided to save him the ritual and took out a few notes, handed them over. He quickly stowed them in his coat lest I change my mind, but principally so the school wouldn’t see the amount. Loyalty is not a top item on the agenda of the street. Clouds began to move across the sky and I stood up.
    He asked,
    “If I may be so bold as to ask, what happened to your knee?”
    “A guy beat me.”
    He knew that song and nodded, past beatings registering in his eyes. He looked all of twenty years old and he asked,
    “Did you beat him in return?”
    “Not yet.”
    He savoured that, and then I asked him,
    “Why didn’t you get a dog?”
    “Oh, I did…I ate him.”

 
    “He had seen people who had hanged themselves, stuck a shotgun in their mouth or blown themselves to bits
Somehow he had learned to endure what he saw and put it aside.”
    Henning Mankell, Sidetracked

 
    YES .
    The vote was in and Ireland had ratified the Treaty of Nice. It was the first time we’d voted on a Saturday, the second time we’d voted on this issue. The way was now clear for expansion, and a slew of new countries could join the European Union. On Shop Street non-nationals were smiling and saying “Hello.” Usually they kept their heads down, looked seriously depressed. I used to blame the weather.
    I was en route to visit my mother. I stopped at Griffin’s Bakery and bought an apple tart. As always, there was a queue. A man said,
    “The Washington sniper hit again.”
    A flurry of speculation and, as is the Irish custom, talk switched back to politics. A woman said,
    “That Nice Treaty, it will damage our neutrality.”
    Another older woman, silent till now, said, a note of wistfulness in her voice,
    “Them Nice biscuits, they’d a grand bite.”
    Grattan Road has always been the poor relation of Salthill. It has a beach but the sewers run dangerously close. Even on the sunniest day, an air of greyness hangs over it. The nursing home was in a secluded street, way back from the sea. I had to ask for directions. An elderly man with a cloth cap was sitting on a bench, peering out at the horizon. When I asked him, I thought he didn’t hear me and was about to repeat myself when he cleared his throat, spat a wad of phlegm dangerously close to my shoe. He said,
    “You don’t want to go there, son.”
    Son!
    The ever-present rage, continually simmering, near surfaced. I wanted to shout,
    “Listen, you dozy bastard, get with the game.”
    He looked at me, yellow tinges at the white of his eyes. His nose seemed