'How's Mary?'
        'Fine. She's down in Limerick visiting her family; her niece has just had a baby.'
        'Limerick,' O'Connor says slowly. 'Stab city. As the man says, they need some manners put on them down there. It wouldn't happen here.'
        There have been a number of killings, a drug war, and an inter-family feud for control, which has led to tit-for-tat killings, and given Limerick a reputation for violence. That response is typical of O'Connor, who mouths whatever his boss Ignatius Davin proclaims. Davin who likes order and control.
        Eamon wonders what Davin wants. He is certain O'Connor is here to take him to Davin. Iggy Davin, Eamon's mentor and former close ally on the Army Council, who is Chief of Staff and an iconic figure in the Movement. All-powerful and ruthless in his pursuit of those deemed to be a risk or threat, he is feared, a man to avoid, if possible. Davin is a powerful build, a massive man, deep-shouldered, broad-chested, yet agile, light on his feet, but he has put on weight over the years, or had, Eamon remembers, the last time he saw him.
        Eamon is watching O'Conner, wondering and worrying. He has no desire to see Ignatius Davin, to have any dealings with him. Eamon knows Davin wants something. He does not know what, but he is certain Ignatius Davin is not concerned with his welfare. Eamon has accepted he is retired. In many ways he is grateful; he likes sleeping in his own bed most nights, unlike when he was on the Army Council and felt hunted and watched like an animal, so that he never slept anywhere more than two nights running. No, he does not want to return to that. Although at times he chaffs and gets restless, he is aware of how lucky he is, to be safe and sane: above all to have the bonus of Mary's love, this flowering of his late marriage.
        'Well?' O'Connor prompts. 'It would not happen here, would it? No turf wars.'
        'No.'
        The landing stage is in view. The rain has stopped. Eamon sees there is another full load of cars and vans waiting to cross over into the Republic, people travelling to work there. Lots of that these days, more since the ferry went into service a few years ago. And the Celtic Tiger began to growl and roar, while the British Lion, at least in Northern Ireland, grew mangy and old and tired and did not make much noise.
        'Pull in over here,' O'Connor says when they are clear of the ferry park and on the road. Eamon does so. O'Connor nods at the black camper van that is waiting in the lay-by. Another car pulls in behind Eamon's. O'Connor hands the keys to an unknown young man.
        Eamon gets into the back of the camper van and sits on a bench seat that pulls down to make a bed. Opposite him, Ignatius Davin continues to chew a sausage roll, grey flecks of pastry spatter his shirt and open jacket. Eamon, who has not seen him for some months, thinks he is even fatter than when they last met.

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