Yeah, I know how that sounds – my one and only employee had been my surrogate son, Cody, and as the Americans say, ‘he took a bullet for me’ . . . literally, and he was now where just about everyone who had contact with me was. Buried. I was still reeling from the revelation that I wasn’t responsible for Serena May’s death. It had been the focal point of my whole existence these past years. The guilt, the nightmares – and wallop, I didn’t do it. I could now finally think about that gorgeous child, the button nose, the cherubic face, and not be devastated. Christ, I loved her more than mere alcohol would allow, and worse, she loved me too. I made her laugh and she had such a wondrous heart-warming one, you could believe in angels. And even as I thought this, the church bell from the Claddagh began to toll. The old people say, ‘When you hear a bell ring, it’s an angel getting her wings.’ Mind you, the old folk believe all kinds of weird shite. Still, I kind of liked the notion, though I knew fuck all about angels.
