He watched the colour, the mixture of mud and water, and the small currents and pockets of movement within the flow. It was a Friday morning at the end of July; the traffic was heavy on the quays. Later, when the court had finished its sitting he would come back again and look out once more at the watery grey light over the houses across the river and wait for the stillness, when the cars and lorries had disappeared and Dublin was quiet. He relished that walk through the Four Courts when the building was almost closed and everyone had gone and his car was the last in the judges’ car park, that walk along the top corridor and down the centre stairway; old stone, old wood, old echoes. He loved the privacy of it; his solitary presence in the vast public building whose function was over and done with for the day. Years back he would stop for a moment, as he had been instructed to do, and examine his car before he opened the door. Even though the car park was guarded, it would still be easy to pack explosives underneath; often as he turned the ignition he was conscious that in one second the whole car could go, a ball of flame.
