Before getting stuck in, I called Gabby to say I couldn’t make it over tonight.

‘What a shame,’ she said, ‘it’s so unusual for the house to be empty. And I’ve bought all this lovely food.’

My body groaned.

‘Were there going to be candles?’

‘I can confirm there were going to be candles,’ she giggled, ‘and Shiraz.’

‘I’m truly sorry,’ I said, ‘mostly for me.’

‘You’re missing out, I can assure you of that, Donal,’ she teased, ‘I’d even tidied my room.’

‘Wow, I’ve seen your room. That’s commitment. You must be exhausted?’

‘I’ve got more stamina than that,’ she giggled.

‘Okay, I think under some UN guideline this actually constitutes torture. I can’t take another second.’

‘Wimp!’

‘We’ll see about that, madam,’ I said, realising at that point that I could only fuck this up now, so I added a swift: ‘I’ll call you tomorrow.’

‘Look forward to it.’

‘Bye,’ I managed, before slamming the handset and my forehead down against the desktop, over and over.

Chapter 21

Archway Tavern, London N19

Sunday, August 11, 1991; 14:00

Next day was one of those glorious mid-summer Saturdays when English people clog coast-bound motorways and Irish folk head to the pub.

The Archway Tavern’s back bar heaved, the big screen boomed and the blinds failed to block out the searing afternoon sunshine. I found Fintan leaning against a ledge nursing two stools and two pints. I took a quick scan: we had a perfect view of a screen and a short, clear path to both the bar and the gents. I marvelled at his attention to detail. He wouldn’t relax until he got exactly what he wanted.

I completed our traditional pre-match preparations by popping two more pints onto the ledge. Today was the most anticipated game of Gaelic football in our lifetimes. This was no longer just a game. This extraordinary encounter between two giants – Dublin and Meath – had come to represent the Titanic struggle between Ireland, new and old.

Dublin had a young team on the rise. They were slick, fast, smart, progressive: the future. Ageing Meath had been All-Ireland winners in ’87 and ’88. They were talented but cynical, dogged, pugnacious. Old Ireland. At least that’s how we read it.

These teams had already played three times and drawn three times – twice after extra time. Dublin had thrown away commanding leads in two of those games. Like New Ireland, the Dubs didn’t quite believe in themselves: not yet.

Before throw-in, Ireland’s trendy new liberal President Mary Robinson (Bright New Ireland) shook hands with both teams. A week earlier, she shook hands with the Dalai Lama against the express orders of the Prime Minister, Charles Haughey (Corrupt Old Ireland). Apparently Haughey – former IRA gunrunner, bribe-taker and friend to Mugabe, Castro, Gaddafi – took a dim view of Mr Lama and his hippie, spread-the-love ways.

Fintan and I were rooting for Dublin and a bright, new Ireland. To our dismay, most of the neutrals wanted the warriors of Meath to put these cocky young Dubs firmly in their place.

The Game not only lived up to the hype but eclipsed the Rocky-style pantomime drama of all that had gone before it. We all got totally sucked in. Dublin led all the way. Mulish Meath launched a typical comeback and, with seconds remaining, sealed a last-gasp, single-point victory. The white flags went up. The pub went up. Mayhem spilled out onto the busy Archway roundabout.

‘Another failed Irish revolution,’ spat Fintan.

The sombre opening notes of U2’s ‘One’ rose from the jukebox, offering succour. The window blinds and big screens rolled up. Thick smoky shafts of sunshine sought us out, grim reality’s merciless searchlights. I felt washed out, dried out, post-cinema depressed.

I looked around. A low evening sun burned hard, silhouetting everyone near the large windows and open doors. Everything else in the pub looked sepia and somehow suspended in time.

A rim-lit figure came striding through the main door, purposeful, confident, entitled. I recognised that gait. I turned to see Fintan’s tired eyes darken. As the silhouette got closer, it slowly morphed into a woman with a dark brown bob, smiling so hard that she couldn’t seem to blink. I felt sure I knew her, but I couldn’t quite place the face.

‘I thought I’d find ye here,’ she said.

I would have walked past her on the street.

‘Jesus, Donal, you look like you’ve seen a ghost,’ laughed Eve Daly, coming in for a hug.

She didn’t hug Fintan, who just stood there bloodless and open-mouthed, like a dead fish.

‘You were right, Fintan,’ she said, ‘suspended sentence. We got the verdict at the High Court yesterday, in camera. The media doesn’t even know.’

‘That’s great, really great,’ Fintan said, but he seemed rattled.

‘Are you not going to buy me a drink then, after all the exclusives I gave you?’

That snapped him out of it.

‘Of course. Your usual?’

She nodded and I frowned in confusion as he scuttled off. How did he know her ‘usual’? What did she mean: ‘you were right’? What the hell was going on?

‘He’s been my rock,’ said Eve, her cat green eyes glazing slightly, ‘I wouldn’t be standing here now if it wasn’t for him.’

‘What do you think?’ she said, palming her new brown bob in disbelieving hands. ‘No one’s recognised me yet,’ she added, turning to the bar to double check.

I hadn’t the heart to say it sucked the prettiness right out of her. I was too busy trying to work out what had been going on between her and Fintan.

‘I wrote to you, four times …’

‘I know, I’m sorry, Donal, it was just crazy. I didn’t know what was going to happen to me. I wanted you to get on with your own life. And now I hear you’re a copper. Jesus.’

‘Detective Constable, actually,’ I smiled.

‘Oh my God,’ she laughed, shaking her head at the good of it, ‘why?’

I stopped myself saying: ‘Because of what happened to you.’ Too corny. Too soon.

Fintan almost ran back with drinks. I’d never seen him shaken before. I liked it.

‘Eve here has been telling me how you’ve been her rock,’ I spat bitterly, emboldened by the drink.

He ignored me. So did Eve.

‘I told my legal team to do what you said, Fintan, and it worked a treat.’

Pennies were starting to bounce off my thick skull. Fintan had been pulling the strings for her all along, even from London. No wonder he looked uncomfortable.

‘I wish we’d pushed it further now,’ she went on, ‘I reckon we could have negotiated an acquittal.’

‘I’d no idea you two were still in touch,’ I said, glaring at him. He kept his focus firmly on Eve.

I turned to her: ‘Pushed what?’

She looked at Fintan, who finally spoke: ‘Haven’t you heard? We’re the poster boys of Europe. We’ve agreed to sign the Maastricht Treaty without a referendum. That means single currency for Europe, grants galore for Ireland.’

Eve took up the slack, Bonnie to Fintan’s Clyde: ‘So we threatened to take my case to the European Court. They shat themselves!’

They shared a conspiratorial grin.

‘Another masterstroke,’ she said, raising a glass which he met almost instinctively. Another quiverful of flaming arrows sliced through me.

‘Where are you staying?’ I demanded.

‘Hammersmith, a bail hostel.’

‘Sounds grim.’

‘Are you kidding me? After Mountjoy, a single room in Hammersmith is heaven.’

‘And what brings you over here, Eve?’

‘My barrister thrashed out a deal, me coming over here and lying low was part of it, at least until the vote goes through parliament and the treaty is signed. When it all blows over, well, let’s see …’

She smiled at me and my skin ignited. Fintan asked if we fancied another. We looked at each other and nodded, smiling.

‘G and Ts please,’ we said as one and laughed. ‘Lime not lemon!’ demanded Eve.