I couldnt fabricate a plausible lie on the spot, so I told her a part of the truth. It was about this sword, actually, I said, jerking my thumb back to the hilt. Da stole it from him long ago, but in a way its more like he brought it home. Its an Irish sword, you know, but this bloke had it in his private collection, and it didnt seem right, him being British and all.
Hes British?
Aye. I felt ashamed for pushing the widows buttons like this, but I couldnt afford to keep talking all night with a decapitated body in the street. Her husband had been in the Provos during the Troubles and was killed by the UVF, whom the widow had always assumed, rightly or not, to be puppets of the British.
Ah, well then ye can bury the bastard in me backyard, and God damn the queen and all her hellish minions.
Amen, I said, and thank you.
Not at all, me boy, the widow said, and then she laughed. Ye know what me Sean used to say, God rest his soul? He said, A friend will help ye move, Katie, but a really good friend will help ye move a body. She cackled hoarsely and clapped her hands together. Not that I can help ye move a big bugger like that. Dye know where the shovel is?