The Bullet Trick

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Have followed you, shawled in your warmth, since I left the breast, Been toady for you and pet bully,

And a woeful heartscald to the parish priest;

And look! If I took the mint by storm and spent it, Heaping on you in one wild night the dazzle of a king’s whore, And returned next morning with no money for a curer, Your publican would throw me out the door.

'Raftery’s Dialogue With The Whiskey',

Padraic Fallon

Glasgow

THE AEROPLANE WHEELS touched the runway, jerking me awake.

'I envy you, that’s a gift.'

The blonde woman in the next seat smiled. I wiped a hand over my face.

'Sorry?'

'You slept like the dead all the way from Tegel. You’re lucky, I don’t sleep like that in my own bed.'

Some other time I might have asked how she slept in strangers’ beds, but I kept my smart mouth shut and waited while the pilot bumped us into a smooth landing, just another flight. The seatbelt lights turned off and the business types got to their feet and started pulling their bags from the overhead lockers. A mobile phone chimed awake and a man said, I’ll call you back in ten minutes. I’m on a plane. He laughed. No it’s OK, we’ve landed. My insomniac neighbour stood up and I slipped my equipment case from under the seat in front. It felt heavy, but I’d added nothing to it in Berlin, except for the envelope packed tight with bank notes that I hadn’t bothered to count.

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