The old man looks wretched. I say it to him as well. I’m like, “You look focking wretched – worse than usual.”He goes, “I’ve had better nights’ sleep. So, em, when did you get the call from the Gords, Ross?”I know his game. Yeah, no, he’s trying to make me feel guilty for waiting 24 hours before I came to the station to bail him out.I’m there, “Yesterday.”He’s like, “I see.”I’m there, “I thought I’d let you stew. I thought a night in the cells might scare you straight.”“I’m entirely innocent,” he tries to go. “It was all a terrible misunderstanding.”I’m there, “Shoplifting? Are you actually serious?”He’s like, “As I said, Kicker, there’s probably a very simple explanation.”I’m there, “As to how you ended up with a crouching tiger, hidden naggin in your – I can’t believe I’m even saying the words – man bag?”He goes, “I love my man bag. It was a gift from Bernie.”Yeah, no, he’s talking about Bernie from Bray, of all places. He’s been shacked up with the woman since May – in actual Bray. And now it’s all of this.He goes, “Ross, you must believe me. I have absolutely no idea how that whiskey ended up in my bag.”I’m there, “Then you’re either thick or you’re stupid.”“I beg your pordon?”“Dude, that girlfriend of yours put it there.”“Bernie?”“Yes! The same woman who planted shit on you in Bilbao Airport. The same woman who fleeced her own daughter’s till.”“What are you saying, Ross?”“I’m saying the woman is a thief.”“How dare you! How bloody well dare you!”“Where is she?”“I beg your pordon?”“You heard me. As in, why am I here and not her?”He looks uncomfortable. He shrugs and looks away – like me doing the oral Irish.I’m there, “Dude, why isn’t Bernie here?”And that’s when he says it. He’s like, “She has, em, several warrants out for her arrest.”I actually laugh.He goes, “Nothing serious, Ross. They’re mostly just for failure to appear in court.”I’m there, “Oh, is that all? And here was I worrying about you. So what about Hennessy?”“I’m sorry, I don’t follow you.”“Well, he’s your usual go-to goy when it comes to all matters legal. He’s bailed you out of how many police stations over the years?”He tries to bullshit me – me, who could have written the Wikipedia entry on bullshit if I wasn’t possibly dyslexic. He’s like, “Your godfather has a lot on his plate at the moment.”I’m there, “Yeah, no, you’re full of it. The reason you didn’t ring him is because he’s been saying it for months. Your girlfriend – so-called – is a crim. She has a sheet as long as yours. But, as Hennessy said, at least yours were all, I don’t know, victimless crimes, like tax evasion and planning corruption.”He goes, “Good old Hennessy! Loyal to a fault!”The Gorda dude appears with a tray with all of his shit in it. His shoelaces. A Vape. A Tesco Clubcord. Jesus, it’s worse than I thought.I’m there, “Why do you even have that?”He goes, “What, the Clubcord? There’s wonderful savings to be made across an entire range of–”I’m like, “Do you remember the old dear’s line on money-off vouchers and customer loyalty discount schemes? She said they were a form of begging.”He sits down on a chair in the reception area to put his laces back into his shoes. He goes, “Your mother said a lot of things, Ross – not all of them very charitable.”I’m like, “She used to say that Bray came from the Irish word for danger.”“Like all of your mother’s stories,” he goes, “that should be taken with a soupçon of the old sodium chloride.”I’m there, “Dude, this woman isn’t good for you. As a matter of fact, she’s very, very bad for you. Why can’t you see it?”“See what?”“Why do you think she bought you the man bag?”“Some chap named Harry Styles has one apparently. They’re – quote-unquote – all the rage.”“Dude, she bought you the man bag so that she could slip shit into it while you’re out shopping. I literally saw her do it in the Duty Free after the European Cup final.”“You’re talking rubbish, Ross.”“I’m talking sense – and you know it.”“Ross, there’s a very good reason why I didn’t pay for those items.”“That reason being?”“I’m storting to lose my memory.”I actually laugh.He goes, “Bernie’s been saying it for weeks now.”I’m there, “I bet she has.”“Like you said, it’s not the first or the second time I’ve left a shop without paying for something. It’s five or six times now.”“And she’s managed to convince you it’s your memory that’s the trouble?”He goes, “She knows this doctor,” and he make quotation morks with his fingers, “who’ll write me a letter saying that my cognitive function is compromised due to a reduction in my cerebral blood flow.”I’m like, “Dude, wake up and smell the Java. You’ve changed since you moved to Bray. I heard that a motion has been tabled to have you focked out of Portmornock Golf Club.”He goes, “Oh, that was just a misunderstanding, Kicker.”Again, he’s saying this to Mr Bullshit himself.I’m there, “You wore a Dryrobe into the member’s bor – and you refused to take it off when you were asked.”He goes, “They’re terribly comfortable, Ross,” as if that was an excuse for anything. “Actually, that reminds me.”He walks back up to the desk.“Terribly sorry,” he says to the dude, “but I think I may have left my coat.”A second or two later, the dude hands it to him over the counter and the old man puts it on. He looks a complete state in it. He puts his hand in the inside-pocket and whips out – yeah, no – a shoulder of Hennessy. He looks around to see if the Gorda dude is looking. When he realises that he’s not, he twists the cap and takes a swig from it, standing there in Bray – Bray! – Gorda Station, in a Dryrobe, with a bottle of stolen brandy in one hand and a chorge sheet in the other.I’m there, “Dude, you’re actually beyond saving.”