Read Online Cold Eye of Heaven, The by Christine Dwyer Hickey - Free Book Online

sign on the wall beside it. He is leaning in to read it when the door jumps open, frightening the life out of him. A man standing there. ‘Alright?’ he says.
    â€˜Yea, I’m grand. Ta. I was just. I used to work here, you see and. For years, I did.’
    The man has a bunch of letters in his hand, holding the door back with his foot while he racks through them. Behind him, the hall as dark as a cave. The same lino on the floor, old letters in a box on a table.
    â€˜Were you looking for anyone in particular?’ he asks.
    â€˜Unless meself?’ Farley says, then turns and comes back down the steps.
    He stands on the street for a moment, a face in the flow of passing faces. The cold shudders through him. Tea. He was supposed to be getting a cup of tea.
    Now in a shopping centre; blast of white light, a screeching baby. Too late he remembers the Mass card, after passing right by the church on the quays. Other churches pop up and down in his head – Marlborough Street; Whitefriars; John’s; Adam’s and Eve. Churches from all over the city. All very well, but which is the nearest because he hasn’t a clue where he is now? One shopping centre bleeding into another; lights, glass, bawl -ing children. He needs a little rest, a sup of tea, sugar. Maybe a bun. And a newspaper to hide behind, he could check on the death notice, makesure Frank really is dead. He looks for a cafe. But all he can see is a place with no front wall, opening directly out onto the aisle of the shopping centre; plastic tables, plastic trays, paper mugs of tea that you have to go up and get yourself and then stand like a thick looking around till you see a table and then climb over yourself to get to it, so you can drink your tea from your paper cup while the world goes by and gawks in at you sitting there in your plastic grotto. It doesn’t even look as if there’s a jacks in there and he’d be looking to have a piss soon enough. Is it too much to ask – a bit of comfort? Someone to serve him, maybe say a few words? Solid things all around his hands like a cup and a saucer, a stainless steel pot, milk in a jug – handles to hold on to – is
that
too much? Now if Bewley’s was still going. But no point thinking about that.
    He sits down on a bench in the centre of the aisle. Plastic fronds from an imitation palm tree behind him. On one side a woman sending a text. On the other side a schoolgirl staring into space. On the mitch, he’d say. Can’t be much fun mitching on your own. A plain little one, face dotted with freckles. Lonely, he’d say. Something going on at home maybe. He’d like to talk to her, but already he can see she’s wondering should she get up and leave because an oulfella has sat down on the bench beside her.
    He watches for a while, shapes waddling by. The amount of fat people. Everywhere. Men, women, kids, even babies. The size of people these days. Years ago there might be one or two puddners in the whole school, or a fatso living around the corner. But now? Now the only skinny ones you see is the junkies. Or people who look as if they’re just out of the cancer hospital or on the way in. His eyes feel tired; he closes them for a few seconds; vague sounds around him; a man mumbling somewhere close by, coincidentally about Bewley’s; the chatter of footsteps; blurts of passing conversation. When he opens his eyes the youngone has gone, wandering down through the centre, he sees her little copper head. The woman still there, staring at him. She looks away and something about the way she does this makes Farley realize that the voice he’s been hearing mumbling in the background, was his own. The light starts beating again. His head. A long skewer pierces through, then pulls out again. There’s a rush ofpinpricks in his arm, a smaller one in his face. More unpleasant than painful. Peculiar. It lasts a few seconds. Then all clear again.
    He keeps