Long Way Back.

The circle was near complete. Two years of tears, heartache and then being told "No, it wasn't possible." But Kathy persevered. Call it determination, guts or just plain pig-headedness, she didn't care. Today, she closed the book on frustration.

One Monday afternoon almost two years ago, Kathy's life changed. A series of events led to her losing her right leg below the knee and her left foot, just above the ankle. She had had both amputated within days of the incident.

The initial outpouring of love from friends and family was much appreciated. Fundraising efforts went a huge way toward financially supporting her recovery, but then the support ended. And depression set in. A sense of loneliness that Kathy had never once felt before.

It began to consume everything in Kathy's life. Her husband, despite his best efforts, was pushed away. He was emotionally scarred from the events of that tragic day too, but when pushed, he fell. He wasn't as strong as Kathy.

When the medical bills kept pouring in, the funds dried up. Kathy was left with the most basic of prosthetics. Budget spending cuts in the health system meant Kathy was out of time and money.

Her day-to-day life continued, but the pain and darkness was enveloping her. Her family were soon at arms length, as her dependency to painkillers and other softer narcotics increased. She was soon seen as an embarrassment to be around.

Then under the neon glow of a flea bag motel, clarity came calling.

Kathy happened to be limping along a dank hallway, when she heard a gun go off. She hobbled back to her room, spotting a gunman escaping down the fire escape.

After being interviewed by police for her statement, a local news reporter called Lauren Justice, saw the deep despair in Kathy's eyes.

She recognised her from the terrible tragedy that cost her the natural ability to walk. She asked if she could do a feature news piece on her struggles since the accident. Lauren wanted to point out the deficiencies in the health care system and the vulnerable people that it left in it's wake.

Kathy initially hesitated, sensing that this stranger in the lemon suit was just out to make a name for herself. But Lauren didn't push too hard. She handed Kathy her business card in a handshake, with a hundred dollar bill wrapped inside.

The turning point was Kathy seeing her own face on television.

She was disgusted at what she saw.

Cracked lips, greasy blonde hair that once was flowing and pockmarked cheeks that showed a malnourished soul. That was enough.

The pig-headedness that drove her down was now working in reverse. She called Lauren, asking for a meeting. She agreed to an interview and made a startling claim. This story could be beneficial for both their lives. Lauren would get her exclusive and Kathy could save herself from an early, despairing death.

That day was the turning point. Kathy had achieved everything and more, since that meeting on camera. If any person thought that during that interview that Kathy was anything other than a nut job, they would have been correct.
But they didn't know the spirit within Kathy.

In the eleven months since the exclusive interview, Kathy had gotten clean. With Lauren's help, she had got a job and her own place. She had reconnected with her family, who were very happy to aid her recovery. With the exposure from the interview, Kathy had reestablished the victims fund.

With one major selling point - she was going to run the marathon that had crippled her.

She was told it wouldn't be possible. But after seven months of physical torture in training, here Kathy was lacing up her sneakers. There was only twenty minutes before the start.

She had done fourteen interviews, with all the major networks and radio stations. She was the inspirational story of the year. Several agents had approached her, asking her to do motivational speaking. 

And none of this would have happened, unless she was standing in the wrong spot at the wrong time, two years ago. But now Kathy was ready for the race of her life. A life chapter closed.   

Debut.

Jamie hadn't really slept all night. His father had told him to try and relax, but the excitement and the impending prospect of what might lie ahead - was making his hands sweat at the mere thought.

Jamie had just turned seventeen and was pursuing his lifelong dream. He had taken the advice of his dying grandfather, and took the boat across the Irish Sea. Many had failed in their quest before him - but he was determined to succeed.

And now he was within touching distance of achieving it.

The whistling hiss of the boiled kettle woke his father. He had paid almost four hundred euro for a late flight to Manchester that lasted only forty minutes. But because he didn't have time to book a hotel, he had to endure a night on a lumpy sitting room couch.

Jamie was delighted that his father had dropped everything and come over. He always had been there for Jamie - and he sure as hell wasn't going to miss this special moment. Jamie urged him that today might not be the day.

"I might not get a run out Dad. It could be next week or next month before I get my chance."

"I will pay the same for every weekend for the next year just to be in the crowd to witness your moment. Son, I'm gonna be there to see this with my own eyes. No matter what the cost!"

The small two bedroomed flat was home for the past two months. Jamie shared it with another Irish lad called Matthew. He hadn't been called up to the first team squad just yet. They had followed more or less the same career path, but now Jamie had pulled ahead of him.

Jamie packed his gear bag, double checking he had everything. Before leaving the flat, his Dad stopped him.

"I have something for you. Something that your grandad wanted you to have. He made me go out and buy these for you before he passed."

"What are they?"

"Arm sweatbands."

"Oh! Didn't he wear something similar when he played?"

"It was his trademark. He used to get stick for it, but he still wore them. He wanted these for you, if your special day ever came."

"So grandad held these?"

"He did. And he wanted me to buy them in your colour - red."

The trip in the taxi to the ground was made in silence. Jamie listened to his ipod, drowning out the nerves. The noise level around the ground was relatively quiet. Within an hour that would change. Forty four thousand excited people would change that.

They walked through security and this is where Jamie had to part ways with his father.

"If today's the day, just do what you always do. Play your best. Be yourself. And listen to what the boss wants you to do. Don't let anything distract you from what you can achieve. You are special."

With his father's ringing endorsement, Jamie entered the changing room of the matchday first team for the first time. A murmur from some of the senior players in his direction made Jamie nervous. He didn't really know many of the senior players all that well. Glances and nodding in his direction mildly reassured him.

The club captain and giant of a man that was Ashley Nicks, walked over to him. He asked for everyone's attention. He said that it was the club's tradition that any new matchday trainees had to perform a rite of passage. They had to go around the room and kiss the leather of every players football boot. Jamie hesitated, not knowing if this was an actual tradition or a very silly prank of induction.

The silence told him that it wasn't a prank. He rose seeing almost twenty sets of eyes on him. It was only as Jamie kissed the boot of the last player that the laughter started. Belly laughter. But captain Nicks gave Jamie a big hug and the tension that Jamie was feeling earlier was gone.

The manager walked in just as the laughter started to die down. Seeing all the boots lying on the floor in a semi-circle, he realised what had just happened.

"So I see that the boys caught you out Jamie?"

The boss knew his name?

"Well don't worry Jamie - they'll all be kissing your boots in the days, months and years ahead. Because you're starting today on the left wing - I hope number twenty one sits well with you?"

Jamie could barely utter a response. He managed a nod.

He pulled on the red jersey and shorts. He checked his shin pads were in place about five or six times. He laced up his black boots and drank some fluids. The bell rang inside the dressing room. The boss spoke passionately, giving everyone instructions on their role.

The last thing Jamie did before entering the maelstrom of noise was pull on his granddad's arm sweatbands.

The long journey was over. Jamie stepped onto the turf to make his debut. His father cried tears of joy.

Ghost Fires.

Cracked timbers. Rotting remains. Exposed and tarred metal beams. Loose wiring hanging from every possible orifice of the near crumbling entrance. The smell of sweet magnolias drifting in from across the street brought a harsh contradiction to the scene in the detached old Georgian house.

It was the third inconclusive fire Joe had inspected in the past seven days. All the fires had occurred within four square miles of the city centre. Something was beginning to smell, and it wasn't the stench of water damaged debris.

"Inconclusive initial evidence of foul play," read the lead officer's report from the night previous. Joe flicked through the preliminary photographs. The Chief on scene was a good man and third generation firefighter. He knew his stuff inside out.

Joe entered a familiar scene. He was one of only three fire investigation officers in the greater Dublin area. He had put in the hard time as a firefighter himself, but decided after twelve years of putting them out - he wanted to know what started them in the first place.

He stepped carefully through the remnants, making notes on a small notebook. He felt a distinct chill in the air of the front room, despite the muggy July evening. He inspected the electrical outlets first, avoiding the wires that protruded from their caging. Water continued to drip here and there. Puddles gathered in corners of the first floor. In the far corner of the study, one puddle was frozen over. Joe rubbed his temple with the onset of a headache, probably due to dehydration.

Only the first floor had been badly damaged by the fire. Joe crept slowly onto the second floor of the Georgian house. The staircase creaked and the red carpet squelched stickily underfoot. As he entered the rooms upstairs, he heard a noise downstairs. A metal ping. Like an old typewriter.  Shouting ‘hello’ and hearing nothing back, Joe continued his investigation. His ears popped suddenly.

Finding no evidence of the fire upstairs, Joe went back down. He checked the four rooms on the ground floor for any signs of accelerant. None seemed obvious. Joe looked for smoke and burn patterns. Old electrical wiring systems shorting out, was also discounted. This was consistent with the two previous fires. Fire starting on the ground floor. Point of ignition starting in multiple rooms, all in the centre of the room. His ears popped once again, this time hurting his head for a moment.

The fire seemed to burn over on itself, consuming all available oxygen within the rooms. Each room had the same signature. A knot began to develop in Joe's stomach.

As Joe considered his thoughts he noticed that the black hairs on his left arm were raised – but they weren’t on his right arm. He felt cold air on the nape of his neck. It was time to leave. He heard the ping again, just as he exited the gap from where the front door once stood.

Once outside, he rapidly began to sweat. He felt as if he was being watched, and not from the neighbours. Trying hard to dispel the notion of other worldly beings, he considered the evidence in front of him.

The doors were closed in all the rooms. This would have restricted the movement of the fire. Fresh oxygen would make the blaze grow faster and stronger. But this got hot and would have been fairly easy to contain. Joe consulted the Chief's report. It stated that the fire was under control within sixteen minutes. This was consistent with his initial findings. The pressure from his headache was rapidly building.

Joe wiped his brow from the heat of the setting sun. He grabbed his Ipad from the car and pulled up the reports from the previous two fires. Both followed the exact same pattern. Fires initiated on the ground floor. He heard the ping again, louder and more insistent.

But how would someone start a fire in multiple rooms, at the same time? Keeping doors closed so that the fire would not spread upstairs? As if to only damage the first floor? Joe scratched his head in despair – the heat and feeling of someone crowding him was muddying his thought process.

Glancing through the details of the two previous fires, he found the exact same details popping up again and again. Nothing electrical or suspicious jumped out at him. The ping sounded louder once again.

This was someone out for revenge. Trying to send a message. But who had this capability? Even the most skilled of arsonists would have trouble figuring out the complex logistics of such an elaborate scheme.

There was something here. Trying to get his attention.

Staring back at the now charcoal covered red brick at the front of the house, Joe saw a blue and white circular plaque to the left of the front door. The type of plaque that adorned the front of historic buildings.

That was it. His headache lifted. He felt taller and stopped sweating.

Joe scrambled through the pictures of both houses from the past week. They too had blue and white plaques. He hadn’t noticed them before. He didn’t consider them to be relevant.

They were all former homes of the poet and writer Theodore Priestfield. Joe had seen newspapers reports in the past few days, exalting his works. Bringing his name up on Google, it stated that the poet had died exactly one hundred years ago - today. It also mentioned the fire from the first house earlier in the week. The article went on to state that his four houses were now part of the Literary Bus Tour of Dublin.

Four houses?

Joe scrolled frantically through further archived articles. The fourth house was rebuilt entirely with money from the National Lottery. It had burnt down and was knocked for the public’s safety.

Joe read the urban myths at the bottom of the page. Theodore apparently did all his best works on the ground floor of all his abodes, in the study. His wife grew tired of his love toward his work and not her. She reputedly had many affairs with many young men of the Dublin social scene.

The myth continued to say that Theodore Priestfield was killed in a fire by one of his wife’s ex-lovers. In the only house still standing unscathed. That same house also was rumoured to be haunted. Even the Literary Tour seemed proud to mention this in their literature.

Joe quickly started the engine. The final piece of the article of the urban myths section sent a shiver throughout his body.

Theodore was killed in a fire that started at sundown.

Joe had seven minutes left.

Bastard.

I couldn't move. The creak on the top of the stairs announced his nearing presence. He roared my name knowing that no one would hear his cry. No retribution for his evil actions.

He sniffed the air, taking in the pleasure of knowing my impending torment. He knew I was nearby. The haze of alcohol was impeding his judgement though.

I tried to stifle everything - breathing, movement and voice. I wanted to scream out but knew no one would hear my cries of desperation.

I swallowed hard. He paused on the second to last step.

He consulted his phone. He flicked a few numbers and slipped it back into his torn jeans breast pocket. I could see his wobbliness through the crack of the door.

Then it came. It assaulted my nostrils with an acrid venom. The stench of a man who hasn't washed in many days. Mix in rolled up cigarettes, physical labour and bourbon whiskey. And a fascination with eating fish.

I brought my knees up to bury my head between. I tried to muffle my gag reflex.

I breathed in the remaining embers of fabric softener that still clung to my dress. It took me away from the moment. To a time when my mother sang in the kitchen and cooked apple pies. His deepened roar brought me back to the present.

I could tell that he was getting impatient.

This happened nearly every Sunday evening. He would fall out of his truck, stumble up the two wooden steps on the porch and come looking for me. He would raid the few last pieces of food from the fridge and then come charging. He was predictable.

I was getting to the point where I no longer cared. I wouldn't fight back like I used to. I think I had no fight left in me. I lifted my head out of the scrunch from underneath the stairs. I opened the latch and expected to hear him shout at me.

But all I heard was a dull thud. No shouting.

Then I heard wheezing.

I walked into the back porch to see my prick of an abusive father clutching his chest.

His left hand grabbed at his food stained shirt. His right hand clutched a chicken drumstick hung near the carpet. His eyes wavered in desperation at me.

I slowly approached him and was amazed at how calm I was. He was gasping for air. His wheezing asked me to call for an ambulance.

I shushed him and rubbed the damp sweaty hair out of his eyes. My reassurance seemed to settle him for a second or two.

Then I picked up the chicken leg and sat on the opposite couch.

Then I watched the bastard die.

Tom, Peeping.

The coffee cup was drained of its last dregs. Tom sucked on the polystyrene, leaving teeth marks on the edge. He cast it aside onto the floor of the back seat. He couldn’t risk pissing in public in the alleyway adjacent to his car. The foot traffic was heavy and this neighbourhood was respectable.

Bella was due home anyhow. He would have to leak into a large empty two litre bottle and concentrate on the job at hand. As Tom fished around the floor underneath the drivers’ seat, he heard the distinctive click of her heels on the pavement.

His window was ajar and the waft of garlic and rosemary from nearby Italian restaurants filled the air. A light breeze tickled the branches on the trees, now fully in peak summer’s bloom.

He checked the battery on the long lens. It was full. The short range handheld was three quarters full. His notepad and pen sat on the passenger seat, on top of the greasy wrapper from the local sandwich delicatessen. Tom pulled his glasses from the top of his head and placed them over his eyes. It was time for work.

He first noted the time of Bella's arrival. She was on time, as per usual. Her long, slender legs climbed the eleven steps to her front door. Her navy blue suit and three inch heels complimented her fine shapely figure. Her jacket was unbuttoned at the front.

Tom clicked away on his camera, catching a brief glimpse of her torso through her fluttering blouse as she turned the key in the front door of the brownstone. She held the door open while she disabled the alarm system.

Her dark brown hair was released from the tight grasp of her clip as she entered the front living room. She stood for a moment in front of the window, running her fingers through her tousled, wavy locks. Tom continued to click away, revelling in the fact that this was easily the most satisfying stakeout he ever had. Her husband obviously had his reasons for suspecting her of infidelity.

She left the living room and her shadow informed him that she was venturing upstairs. Curtains were drawn in the bedroom, leaving the imagination to wonder in the world of silhouettes. Slowly, she undressed.

The extractor fan began to spew out steam from the master suite. Almost ten minutes later, her shape reappeared. Tom was sure he could make out her brushing her hair, sitting at her bureau.

Tom continued to make notes. After almost one hour upstairs, she returned downstairs to the kitchen. She poured a large glass of red wine and proceeded to make some phone calls.

A delivery boy from one of the local restaurants skipped up the steps at a little before 10pm. She answered the door in a plain white silk dressing gown, which continued to accentuate her ample bosom. The delivery boy noticed it too, tipping his hat in the air as he descended the steps.

Tom noted the constant flicker of a television screen as the night began to draw in. Bella walked around switching off lights, before retiring to bed just at 11.30pm. She then reset the internal alarm. A nearby car slammed shut, stirring Tom as he himself began to think about drifting off.

Bella wandered around her bedroom for approximately five minutes before finally extinguishing the her bedside lamp. Tom took one final picture with his time stamp before turning the key in the ignition of his beat up Toyota.

Then he heard a scream come from the direction of her bedroom.

Then he saw the briefest flash of light. It then flashed twice more.

Muzzle flashes. But no sound of gunfire.

Tom scooted down in his seat and angled his long lens on the house. He shot a rapid burst from the camera.

He captured the shot of the man who had employed him in the first place.

He was briskly walking directly toward Tom’s car.

Tom’s foot suddenly searched for the gas pedal.

Intrusion.

I bolted upright. The apartment buzzer rang long and loud. I glanced quickly at my watch which read 3.27am. I moved deftly toward the front door. Living on the ground floor, I could hear whomever was pressing the buzzer was mumbling - something very incoherent. And they weren't alone.

Staying within the confines of my own apartment, I listened intently. All six apartments were buzzed in the hope that someone would release the lock on the communal door. I hoped everyone like myself would ignore it. Then the lock disengaged.

I checked the panel display on the alarm system - it was still armed. I heard shuffling on the carpet as they entered. I couldn't make out the accents or what was being said. Then I heard a dull thud. And whispered voices.

I walked to my bedroom window to peer out. A taxi hadn't dropped off our two intruders. They had come on foot. I picked up my phone and scrolled down to the number of the local Garda station. Then the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end.

The rattle of keys only inches from my front door.

My keys were already in the lock - they fell to the floor as the key entered from the far side. I dialled the number on my phone and picked up my keys.

"Hello? This is not your apartment! You will set off the alarm if you enter! You have the wrong apartment!"

"Open the fucking door! NOW!"

"I am ringing the Gardai right now. You are trying to enter a private residence!"

"Open the fucking door Marie!"

"Marie does not live here - you have the wrong door and wrong apartment!"

"You have two seconds to unlock this door before I kick it in Marie!"

"I don't know who Marie is! No one by that name has ever lived here!"

"Don't try to bullshit me! I know she has a new fella! What's your fucking name?"

"I repeat - I do NOT know a Marie. Marie has NEVER lived here! You have the wrong apartment! This is apartment 6B!"

"Open the fucking door asshole!"

I knock his key from the door and reinsert my own. I turn the key to prevent it being knocked out again. Then the attack begins. It near knocks me from my crouched position as I try to peer out of the keyhole. All I see is a boot coming toward the keyhole. Two grown men trying to kick the door down.

I get through to the Gardai. An officer, sounding very groggy, answers. I state the facts clearly and concisely. He takes a moment to write down the details. He can clearly hear the commotion going on in the background. The noise is deafening and the lock is loosening.

The Gardai won't get to me in time.

I have to make a decision to fight or flight. Putting on a pair of tracksuit bottoms and slipping into my runners I grab the spare set of keys. I hear wood splintering with drive of shoe leather. I lock the bathroom door and slip the key into my pants pocket.

I guess I have about ten seconds left. I grab my hurley from the coat cupboard.

Running from the bedroom through the hall and past the front door I open the window to the living room. The alarm goes off immediately as I open it ajar. Adrenaline fuels my every sinew. I leap out the window as I hear the door giving way. I close the window over and hop over the banister. I hear loud shouting amongst a wailing alarm as the two men enter.

It takes me only fifteen or twenty seconds to run around the apartment block. A small crowd of neighbours and semi-sober Saturday night clubbers are just passing and wonder what the commotion is all about.

I have the element of surprise.

My neighbour upstairs peers cautiously out from her front door. I wave her back indoors. The constant hammering of boots on wood has made utter smithereens of the four inch thick wooden front door.

I grab my hurley at the midpoint and take a deep breath. The two men are now kicking intently at the bathroom door. My plan is working. The alarm screams and muffles my approach.

I am less than five feet away and they do not turn around. The smell of alcohol is almost overpowering.

Their gait and stances are faltering. They are tired from pummelling the front door.

I have the legal right to defend myself against unwanted intruders.

I will defend my castle.

Exacting Revenge.

He wiped his nose in his sleeve as the verdict was read out. He didn't even stand. The lead juror stated what I feared was coming. The prosecutor told me that a worst case scenario was possible. I crumbled to the floor, hitting the side of my head off the wood in front of me. I bled, but a deeper darkness enveloped me. I was numb.

The next thing I remember was being lifted into an ambulance. My only remaining family member, Jessica, held my hand through muffled sobs. My twelve year old daughter was fast becoming a woman. My health suffered in the months after my wife and son had been brutally and savagely taken from us.

The stress of hospital bills, funerals and prosecuting one of the city's top officials all took their toll. That bastard, Brendan Houston, had driven home drunk and killed two members of my family. My wife, Imelda, survived on a life support machine for three weeks, but it was all in vain. My son, Jason, was killed instantly. He was six years full of innocence.

Brendan Houston was a city councillor, sitting on two of the five most lucrative executive boards in New Mexico. He was in his early fifties and was one slithery customer. He had never run for office as affairs and two failed marriages all but counted him out by top Republican brass. But he had uses and they had kept him on for more nefarious schemes. Houston was a cigar-smoking, back-slapping, scotch-drinking, plaid-sport-jacket wearing, red-cheeked asshole.

I knew I couldn't prove it, but I knew he was behind pushing my medical insurance beyond it's threshold. There were tests performed on my wife that weren't necessary, that pushed the bills beyond a certain point. I was then liable for the shortfall - money of which I couldn't spend to investigate and prosecute the bastard. I worked in the IT department of the hospital where my wife had died.

I could testify first hand that Houston was a dangerous man. Three nights before the trial started, one of his goons paid me a visit. My strength hasn't been what it used to be, and I could barely raise my wrists to defend myself. Even my bruised face in court didn't seem to make a difference to the jurors. A journalist friend told me six months later, that he suspected that two of the jurors had been bought. He had no proof of that action either.

On returning to work, I was informed that because of my ill attendance, I would have to re-apply for my old position. His influence was fast becoming a joke at this stage. But considering I was one that had suffered tremendous loss in the past year or so, my bosses threw the paperwork in the bin and reinstated me. If I had lost my job, I may have thrown in the towel. I would have had no means to pay bills, pay for school for Jessica - I owed my co-workers a huge debt of gratitude.

Almost two years had passed since then, and my level of anger toward that bastard still had not dissipated. Not only was I reminded of his sins whenever I saw his picture in the papers, but he seemed to be gaining further influence. He was now sitting on the Republican Committee for Presidential Nomination.

Now he had power outside the state. This asshole had to be stopped.

His downfall began when "on a night out with friends", he had a mild heart attack. I had heard that he was in the company of two hookers in a sleazy motel, off route I-96. And his attack wasn't mild - it near killed him.

His file actually passed over my desk as I input the list of patients up for stent, bypass and pacemaker heart surgery. I nearly fell off my chair when I saw his name.

This is where I decided I had to be the one to stop him. I had to kill Brendan Houston.

That morning's paper gave me the idea. It was the technology section of the Albuquerque Journal. I deemed it was fate's way of telling me to carry out karma.

I told no one of my plan. This would give plausible deniability for everyone if anyone suspected anything untoward. If I did this right, it would look like an accident.

I rented a flat in the city, paying cash and using an alias that only my former wife, Imelda, would figure out. It felt right to use the pseudonym, like she was playing a part. I paid in cash for three months rent upfront, including deposit. No one actually saw me come in or go out of the flat.

I purchased a small laptop, mobile phone and mobile Internet key and left it in the flat, later the following night. I placed them in a sealed plastic bag under a dingy looking bed, out of sight.

Back at work, the order was approved to process the health insurance information for Brendan Houston's new pacemaker. His slow-beating arrhythmia deemed that he needed the JP230 pacemaker.
Houston had the surgery, which went according to procedure. He was advised not to undergo any contact sports or strenuous physical activity for a period of a minimum of one month.

Once Jessica was asleep in bed, I would sneak out to my rented flat. This was where I could stop - but I didn't want to. The thrill of it excited me.

I downloaded dangerous malware software to my laptop. And then I sent it to one of the duty managers at the hospital under the guise of an email stating they had won money in a Sweepstakes competition. I then went home to sleep.

The following day my malicious email was opened. It caused chaos on our ageing internal system. Myself and another colleague were charged with fixing the problem. It was going to take some time, we explained. I accessed the one computer with all the information on installed pacemakers.

Knowing that Houston was at home recuperating from his surgery, I rang an escort agency. I sent him a present, wrapped in black silk and beige overcoat. I made sure that she told him that she was a present "from the party".

I sat outside in my car and opened my new laptop. I wore plastic gloves since opening the box. Giving them at least ten minutes to get acquainted, I watched their silhouettes dance amongst the shadows of the bedroom.

I entered the pass key for Houston's pacemaker.  I activated the short wave antenna on his pacemaker.

I didn't hesitate. I hit the enter key to "Deactivate."

I waited for three minutes until I heard the oncoming rush of ambulance siren. I drove to my flat and
dropped off the laptop. I started a slow fire and pulled the fire alarm as I exited. No one saw me enter or exit.

The next morning's front page headlines read:

"City councillor Brendan Houston has been found dead at his home in the city. Mr. Houston died from natural causes, having recently been the patient of heart surgery. He was a prominent member of the Republican Party and was recently elected onto the Committee for Presidential Nomination. According to an unconfirmed report, Mr. Houston recently had a pacemaker fitted and was undertaking strenuous activity with a friend at his home. The Police have unofficially deemed that this is a death by natural causes and that there are no suspicious elements to the case pending a full autopsy."

Now my family had closure.

A Feeling.

Madge couldn't believe her eyes. A former colleague was her new boss. The last time they had seen each other was a brief snog in the handicapped toilet - six years ago at the office Christmas party.

Her former equal had moved up the corporate ladder - Madge career hadn't. They were both on the same pay grade when they messed around. Now her new boss mingled with her co-workers, shaking hands and slapping backs.

The new boss proceeded on the rounds of the entire office, saying hello to everyone. Madge knew that her insignificant logistics corner would be last on the tour. It was a simple shake of the hand and "Nice to see you."

There seemed to be little realisation of their fumble in the dark, and if there was, her boss hid it well. However, something unexpected happened. As they shook hands, a shiver went down Madge's 39-year-old spine. Like an electric current.

As Madge stumbled back into her seat, nearly missing the chair, her boss looked back with concern.

"Are you okay?"

The simple question and mild embarrassment at her own awkwardness, could only muster a grunt in reply from Madge. Her boss looked on with soft eyes, pausing as if for effect.

"It's good to see your familiar face once again Madge."

Madge considered herself unlucky in love. She nearly got married nine years ago, but called it off at the last miinute. Something just didn't feel right.

For the rest of the day, Madge found herself staring off into space. She was always focused and achieved results, but the new boss's arrival had thrown her. During a moment of escapism, her stare wandered over to her new bosses' glass panelled office.

As Madge stared, the tiny blonde hairs on her arm stood to attention. Her palms became sweaty. She found herself biting the side of her bottom lip. The slam of a metal filing cabinet snapped her out of her daydream.

As 6pm neared, Madge got up to use the toilet before quitting time. Most of the office had already filtered home. As she sauntered down the hallway, her new bosses' door swung wide open. The new boss beckoned Madge inside. Madge straightened her skirt before entering.

"Close the door over Madge, would you? Thanks a million."

"Sure. What's up?"

"Take a seat. There's no need to be standing. Sure we're old friends. How long has it been? Five? Six years?"

"There or thereabouts. What did you want to see me about?"

"You really haven't changed one bit. I'm delighted to see you still with the company."

"Well, it does pay the bills!"

"Yes it certainly does. What I mean is, I'm glad to see you still here. We didn't part on the best of terms last time around. Let me make up for that last occasion."

"Oh! You don't waste time."

"Please don't take this the wrong way - I'm not trying to make you feel awkward here in any way. I just want to clear the air between us and eh, move on."

"Oh, okay. I would like that too."

"Good, good."

"But it is good to see a former cellmate doing well."

"Former cellmate - that's funny! Em, I'm nearly finished up here - are you?"

"Well I was just on my way to the bathroom before I head home to eat my dinner for one."

"You don't fancy a drink, do you? I've had one long day and would love to catch up with what's going on here."

"Yeah I suppose I could. But I don't know how to address you exactly. Is it boss or what do I call you?"

"It's Olive to you."

Are you Pink Fox?

Colm was having a bad day. His boss, Agatha, was on his case to finish the Clemson account before the end of the week and Colm didn't realistically seen that getting completed in time. They could have done it in time if they had the manpower in his office of two years ago. But cutbacks meant they had to make do with less, yet his bosses still wanted the same level of service and account completion.

Colm chewed on his moist chicken salad sandwich and washed it down with some bottled water. Coming to the park on his lunch break meant he could escape the humdrum life of grey walls and false partitions, for half an hour or so. It was worth the five minute walk to enjoy the sunshine and interaction with other people.

Colm sat on his usual bench watching the world go by. He often spotted fellow lunch goers on their own benches, chewing and digesting the split of the working day. It was just like any normal Wednesday.

Until she sat down beside him.

Dressed in a long beige overcoat, complete with over sized sunglasses and black hat more akin to a funeral rather than a sunny June day - she made Colm feel very self conscious with a flick of her long black hair. She turned to him and said in a clipped Russian or Eastern European accent

"Are you Pink Fox?"

Colm didn't know what to do. He wasn't wearing pink. Did he look like a fox? If anything he thought, I look more like a grey squirrel.

His inquisitive and playful brain told him to play along. He thought this could be a prank being played on him by his best mate Dessie. This had his mark all over it - especially the accent. She was good in the role. He sat upright and decided to play along.

"Maybe I am. Who are you?"

"Brown Donkey. Do you have the files?"

"Maybe I do, eh, Brown Donkey."

"Stop messing around! They could be watching us right now! We don't have much time!"

"That's very true. I have to get back to the office before they realise... that I'm not there!"

"When did you leave the office?"

"About twenty minutes ago. Do you have the money?"

"It is in here, as requested, in used non-sequential one hundred dollar bills. Don't you trust me?"

"Of course I trust you, eh, Brown Donkey."

"You seem nervous - should I be?"

Colm took his time to sip some water and calm his nerves. Was this real?

He had a flash drive in his pocket with notes on the Clemson account. He pulled out the memory stick and slid it toward her, all the time looking around to see if anyone was indeed, watching them.

Brown Donkey pulled out a brown manila envelope and slid her switch toward Colm. He could see the colour of green edging out of the side of the envelope. There was a lot of green.

"Everything is on this - yes?"

"Everything I have."

"I won't be disappointed then?"

"I hope not."

Sweat pooled at the end of Colm's shirt. He didn't want to move forward to reveal how nervous he actually was. Brown Donkey walked away hurriedly, keeping her head down.

What had just happened?

Within ten seconds, Colm lay face down on the path in front of him.
  

The Shorthand Notebook - Part 5 - The Final Instalment.

"How did you spot that Tony? That's like sixth sense and shit!"

"I saw it through the back of the sheet."

"That kinda backs up what Judge O' Sullivan said in the interview."

"What do you mean Lenore?"

"Give me a couple of minutes. I've literally transcribed what I can understand from this notebook. It might not make perfect sense initially, but I'm sure we can thrash it out between ourselves."

"Okay - hit me with it."

"It starts off a bit formally and as I said previously, as this guy was writing as fast as he could. The judge introduces himself and says he's entering into this interview willingly and not under any duress."

"Making it clear that he's of sound mind, I'd say. To make sure it stands up in court, if needed," I add.

"You're probably right Tony. Carty makes a reference to scotch here, but I can't make out the context of the sentence. The judge makes some remark that he wished to right one of his biggest regrets of his entire life."

"Which would be?"

"Not putting Sergeant James McCarthy behind bars."

"Whoa!"

"Are you serious Lenore?"

"Yep. That's what is says here Tony. My transcription might not be perfect, but that's what my understanding of it is."

"That's a very serious allegation! Why would he make such a statement? He's a man, or was a man of the law. You can't just make wild accusations like that without evidence! Or proof!"

"Maybe that's why he's telling his story to a reporter Rob. Getting him to do the digging as he has only a certain period of time left in his life. Or had - you know, what I mean. Leaving a legacy and all that."

"Maybe it's these allegations that got them both into trouble."

"Maybe it was, Lenore. And this god-damn notebook is the key to the evidence."

"Shit. I never thought of it like that! Jesus Christ Tony! What else do the notes say?"

"Em, the judge gives us his back story. He attended Clongowes school in Dublin as a boy and one summer worked in his uncle's law offices in London. He loved London and his uncle, whom he was very fond of, sponsored him to attend law school after regular school at King's College London. He showed a natural aptitude for law and graduated in the top 1% of his class. Before qualifying for the bar, he was approached."

"What do you mean approached?"

"By MI6."

"Oh!" both of us said in unison.

"The judge spent six years in London practising law in his uncle's firm - whilst also working for MI6 on the side. He says he barely had time for a day off or a girlfriend during those years. He states that he was quite lonely during his early twenties but had feck all time to wallow on it. On the eve of his twenty-fourth birthday, his uncle died suddenly and suspiciously. His uncle was a prominent and well respected Irishman in London, and lived in wealthy Kensington."

"How did he die?"

"In a fire in his own home. The fire service never determined what started the fire, but they suspected arson. This was London in the early 1970's where an Irish accent was viewed with suspicion. The judge then states that although it was never proven, he suspected it was the work of the IRA."

"Holy shit!"

"Fearing for his own safety, the judge returned to Dublin. His association with MI6 continued though, informing his bosses of any terrorist links that might prove worthy of them pursuing. He sat the bar in Dublin and passed it without any complications. He soon joined a top firm in Dublin and was being touted as the next big thing. He worked hard and kept his head down. He met Angela, who joined the firm as a paralegal and got married in a whirlwind romance. Within eighteen months, their first boy, Andrew, was born. A second followed soon after - by the name of Michael. It was shortly after Michael's fifth birthday, where he first came upon a cocky young Garda, by the name of McCarthy."

"Hardly the same Sergeant McCarthy from the airport?"asked Rob.

"Yes indeed Rob. James McCarthy graduated from Templemore in 1974. That same Garda now runs the Special Investigations Unit (SIU). Born and bred in Dundalk, he had his own run-in's with the law as a young fella - but they were all expunged from his record when he signed up for the Gardai."

"How the fuck did that happen?"

"According to the notes, he had an uncle, who was a Detective at the time. He was stationed in Ballybofey who looked out for him. McCarthy was lucky to be stationed in Monaghan town, close enough for his uncle to have influence. After about five years there, he then was stationed in Drogheda. That's when serious shit started to happen. Files would go missing, evidence would get lost - that kind of shit. The thing is that type of behaviour was rife in the border counties at the time. It made a mockery of bringing anyone with terrorist links to trial. Very rarely was anyone prosecuted without something going wrong at some stage."

This was sounding like a film. Rob and I sat glued to our seats. I had forgotten about my pint sitting right in front of me.

"Anyway - the first time he met McCarthy was in the Four Courts in 1979. The judge was working second chair in a case against a known arms trafficker for the IRA. This man, Alan McKeever, was also on the run from the British forces for suspected terrorist offences up north. The plan was to sentence him here in the Republic, if convicted, and then transfer him for extradition when his sentence concluded. If all was supposed to go according to plan, he was going to spend about ten years in Portlaoise or Mountjoy, and then get his marching orders to the UK for trial."

"McKeever? Why does that name sound so familiar?"

"That's because it's famous Tony. The McKeever escape case?"

"Jesus yeah! That was this case?"

"It was. The judge says that the trial was floundering from the very start anyhow. Evidence got lost on the eve of the first day in court. Papers weren't filed initially too, holding it up another four days. Tensions were mounting and everyone was under extreme pressure to do their jobs properly. Even the government were putting the squeeze on. And then the jury tampering began."

"The what?"

"You heard me right. Two jurors had to be removed on day two - one was a registered card holding member of Sinn Fein. The other was visited in his local pub by two 'gentlemen' with northern accents - who proceeded to knock seven shades of shite out of him. The judge had no option but to remove both from the jury panel."

"Jesus! I thought that type of shit only happened in movies!"

"All this hype and distraction made everyone take their eyes off the ball. That was their end game according to the judge. After a drawn out case with lots of shit going on, McKeever only gets six years for arms trafficking. As he's being transported to Portlaoise, the prison van is ambushed. The IRA are heavily suspected, but it's never proven. McKeever goes on the run and never serves jail time in the Republic. They think he manages to get on a boat to Amsterdam and then to the USA. They still think he's over there under another alias. The big thing that stinks about the escape is suspected Garda collusion."

"Jesus Christ! This notebook is just full of bad shit!"

"The ambush goes too well. No Garda or prison officer is killed, which is exceptional in those type of circumstances. That's what made everyone think there was an inside man or men involved. But one man gets a broken leg and a heavily bruised cheek - guess who?"

"Sergeant McCarthy?"

"Correct Rob. He gets a commendation, as do all the Gardai involved. It just so happens that McCarthy gets promoted to Detective less than a year later. The judge has no actual contact with McCarthy during the trial, but he and some of his peers have their suspicions. He then passes on his theory to MI6."

"So this story goes international quite quickly?"

"MI6 send over their own agents to monitor McCarthy for a period of six months, but it reveals very little. He keeps his head down and they suspect he knows, that he's actually being watched."

"Does he confront them?"

"No apparently not. The MI6 had an odd theory at this time, that they too had a mole inside their operation. This was never proven also, but it was strange that McCarthy seemed to be one step ahead all the time. This is where the judge starts to meander on a bit and asks for more scotch. The reporter Carty, puts a big question mark in here. Anyhow eh, the judge continues in his own career and makes it onto the bench in 1992. He starts off in the District Courts before getting the big push up to the Criminal Court in 1999. In the meantime, he keeps a close eye on the progress of now Sergeant McCarthy."

"Do they cross paths?"

"Yeah, now where is it? Here it is - they meet alright, but before the judge makes the big leap to the Criminal Court. On a civil matter in 1995, an elderly male neighbour of McCarthy brings a civil boundary issue to the court. The neighbour states that McCarthy built a boundary wall that crossed onto his property. McCarthy denies it by playing the 'I'm a great Garda I'd never do any such thing' card. The neighbour produces the original deeds to the property which had been owned by his family for two generations. The judge rules in the elderly man's favour and McCarthy throws a vile stare at the judge upon reaching his verdict. He says he still can remember those eyes burrowing into him from across the courtroom."

"So he lost and blamed Judge O' Sullivan?"

"Well, yes and no Tony. Yes he lost the case but he still kept his boundary wall. His neighbour died of a heart attack less than six weeks later and before the wall was due to be torn down. Postmortem revealed it was due to stress. Guess who bought the house when it went up for auction?"

"I'm really beginning to hate this prick."

"So they had no interaction with each other apart from that civil matter, until late last year. Two days before any judge was appointed to oversee the case of a Dublin based drug boss being prosecuted, they met 'accidently' in the toilets under Court number 3. In the judge's opinion, it was no accident. He had no idea that he was going to get the nod to oversee the case. But apparently McCarthy knew something he didn't."

"How the hell did he know?"

"The judge had no idea Rob - but he threatened him. At this time, McCarthy was now in charge of the SIU and his team led the investigation against this drug boss. This boss also had strong links to the Real IRA. Their case was fairly threadbare because of their heavy-handed tactics on not securing warrants before seizures of property. I see a note that Carty scratched here that looks like 'half arsed job'. McCarthy warned the judge not to make his unit look bad in the eyes of the media. He mentioned the judge's two sons by their first names. According to these notes and quoting Carty here, he went as white as a sheet when talking about their encounter."

"This asshole had it in for him."

"This is where I'm not sure about the notes. It's either Carty taking direct quotes from the judge or is just paraphrasing and making up his own mind about things. He uses some shorthand notes I'm not too sure about."

"Well, what do you think it is Lenore?"

"I actually think it's the judge's theories. I would lay money on the fact that the judge suspected that this case was a win-win for McCarthy. If the charges stick against the drug boss, McCarthy and the SIU are brilliant and he gets looked on favourably by his bosses for promotion once again."

"And if he lost, how is that a win?"

"They can chalk it down as a learning experience and go at them harder the next time. And then McCarthy gets his cut."

"Cut of what??" I ask incredulously, fearing what came next.

"Oh yeah, I forgot to mention and go back to your initial theory Tony. The judge suspected that James McCarthy was, and always has been - a member of the IRA."

"And as a result - he could be a member of the Real IRA. Fuck." Rob finished Lenore's train of thought and confirmation of the notes.

"Which means this fucker has his finger in so many pies. And he's dangerous - very dangerous."

"What else is in the notes Lenore?'

"Not much else Tony. That's the essential nuts and bolts of the interview."

We sat for a  moment, digesting the revelations. Rob broke the silence

"Any idea what we should do?"

"Well top of my list is not to go to the Gardai!"

We laughed nervously.

"How about you sleep on it? You both can sleep at my house. I kinda em, live alone. The Gardai won't know that you're there and you'd be safe. As would the notebook."

Failing to come up with any other valid ideas, Rob and I decided it was most likely, the safest option. The past few hours had drained me physically and emotionally, and I needed to rest. Rob, being the fitter of us two, barely looked like it had taken anything out of him. We took a cab to Lenore's three-bed semi-detached house.

In the confines of a small box bedroom at 3.32am - the solution hit me. Rob snored loudly in the double room next door. I wanted to share my idea with them both - just to see if I had covered every angle - and that justice might still be done. I lay awake for the next three hours, running over the plan. Lenore stirred first on the landing, gently tapping on my door. I jumped from my bed and took that as my cue to wake Rob.

Lenore made coffee while I ran my plan by the two of them. My thoroughness impressed them.
Then we overheard the news on the radio at 7am, playing in the background.

"A body was found late last night in a wooded area in the Dublin mountains. The body is believed to be that of the journalist Pierce Carty who disappeared a few days ago. Reports are yet unconfirmed.."

"Now we have to do this," I reiterated.

We copied all pages of the notebook from Lenore's printer. We also threw in copies of Lenore's transcripts. We all wore latex gloves. I rang the live reporting desk of the Evening Herald from my new phone - Pierce's paper. At this time of the morning, very few staff would have clocked in. But there would be a staff member there.

I asked for the lead reporter's name dealing with the story of Pierce and the murdered judge. The name given to me was Sandra Greally. I wrote her name down on the bubble-wrapped envelope and sealed it. I insisted that Rob and Lenore go back to their jobs to avoid suspicion. They resisted initially, but soon saw the merits of my idea.

Lenore called a cab for Rob and I to take to the airport. I needed to borrow some things from Lenore to pull this off. I left my bag and laptop with her at the house. I would have to return for them later. As the cab arrived, I placed the small borrowed wheelie bag into the boot of the car.

My wig wasn't the most secure, but it would do. Rob was more nervous than I. My latex gloves were barely visible to the naked eye.

I instructed the cab driver to drop me off outside the main vehicle entrance to the airport. I would be walking in. I tucked up the sleeves of the over sized coat before exiting out of the back passenger door. I winked at Rob as he mouthed the words 'Good luck'. I felt brave in the inside yet my hands quivered.

Walking into the airport along the path, an idea sprung. I spotted the hotel courtesy bus outside the front of the Clarion hotel. If cameras were going to catch my movements, I might as well have fun running them around in circles. Then a large slice of luck fell on my lap.

A school tour group of about fifty students wearing bright red t-shirts were leaving the hotel. I hung around the front of the hotel and got speaking to one of the leaders of the group. They were flying back to Madrid after spending yesterday evening travelling up by bus from Cork. I commented on how bright the t-shirts were and asked if he had a spare one. I explained that I was from Cork and that this was my county colour - even though I was from Limerick. I don't think he fully understood me and my dodgy Cork accent, but he handed me a spare one from his bag. Whipping off the over-sized coat, I donned my new costume complete with dark sunglasses. I was going to get lost in a crowd.

I stayed with the group as long as I could before filing away toward the arrivals level. I kept my head low and my movements slow and steady. To the untrained eye, I looked like a student. I made my way over to the weigh-and-pay self service kiosk. The self service post kiosk was Rob's brilliant idea. I calmly followed the easy guide and placed the envelope into the postbox. I continued to keep my head low and made my way to the toilet.

I returned out of the toilet in a new costume. The red t-shirt was in the bin along with the black mullet wig. I had a long-sleeved white t-shirt on and different sunglasses - all courtesy of Lenore's ex-husband. A Pringle tank top completed the outfit. My hair was slicked tight too.

I boarded the Aircoach bus to take me into the city centre. I sat in the back seat of the bus, which was vacant at this time of the morning. I spotted one camera at the front entrance of the bus - no others. No other passenger sat in the last seven or eight rows. I changed my clothes again - taking off the tank top and sunglasses. I put on a grey hoodie and baseball hat. Inside the wheelie bag was a blue sports bag. I transferred everything into it. Using the time I had left on the bus, I rang my previous phone provider. I told them that my old phone had been robbed yesterday morning, and I was now using a friend's phone. I asked them to delete and block the number completely - for good.

As we entered the depot of my final destination, I dialled a number I found online.

"Hello and good morning - this is the British Embassy - how can I help you?"

"Hello and good morning. Can you tell me if all your telephone queries from the public are recorded Madam?"

"I'm not sure quite what you're asking for Sir? And of course, I cannot divulge that information over the phone. May I patch you through to any particular department?"

"Okay then. This message is for the attention of your Diplomatic Secretary and more importantly, your two secret service agents who were in Dublin yesterday. The notebook they search for is now back in the same position as I found it yesterday - at the train station. It is now taped underneath the seat they saw me sitting on. Do you understand my message?"

"Em, yes Sir. But I'm not quite sure you're talking to the right person."

"Is this conversation recorded?"

"Em,.."

"I'll take your hesitation as a yes."

I hung up the phone and quickly switched it off, pulling out the battery too. Taping the notebook underneath my seat was easy. I made my way to the toilet again and changed into my last set of clothes. I wiped all components of my new phone clean of all fingerprints and dropped it into the bin as I exited the toilet as yesterday.

I had gelled my hair forward and wore a light green woman's Parka jacket. The wheelie bag was back out too. I spotted no one watching my movements. I jumped onto the LUAS red line and took it to Connolly station. I still saw no one following me. I had to wait fifteen minutes before boarding a DART train to Malahide. Those fifteen minutes seemed like an eternity. The commuter train was near empty, but I still eyed everyone warily.

Stepping off the platform, I still spotted no one watching me. I walked the mile or so to Lenore's house. But I still didn't feel comfortable. I couldn't see anyone following me, but I knew something was up. I could sense it.

But upon reaching Lenore's house, I relaxed. Her estate was quiet and as I slid the spare key into her front door, I let out a loud, relieved sigh. The cue to let both Rob and Lenore know everything was okay - was two rings from Lenore's land line phone in the hall. I rang both of them as agreed and opened the door leading into the kitchen.

The two British agents sat at the breakfast counter, calmly drinking tea.

The taller, greyer one tapped the notebook between his hands, while the other stirred his mug.

"I was beginning to think that you weren't going to show Tony."

"How the hell do you know my name?"

"All we can say is that we've been watching you for a while. Quite some time actually. We've known your every move since we met yesterday - in that bathroom toilet."

"And how would you have known that? Even I didn't know what was going to be happening over the last 24 hours! You're full of shit!"

"I'm full of shit. Okay! Here's what we know about you - your name is Tony Nugent and you're 23 years old. You're in IT. You commute back home to Limerick at weekends. Your favourite colour is green. We sprayed a marker into your coat which we've been tracing. How am I doing so far?"

"Okay! So you've done a background check on me - you're a whizz on a computer! That doesn't impress me. Sure I could do better in half an hour on Facebook."

"Okay - so you want to be impressed then."

"Well you haven't done it yet and I'm still nearest the front door."

"What if I told you that this entire past twenty four hours was a test? Specifically for you? Would you be marginally flattered then?"

"I'm not sure I follow you."

"We didn't kill the judge - or the reporter. We made up the idea of the actual notebook being real and leaked it to the press. Carty was dirty - just like the copper. He was IRA too."

"Whoa a second! So that interview never happened? And you knew Carty was dead?"

"The interview never happened and yes - we suspected that Carty had been killed."

"How did you know that?"

"Please! We do work in intelligence!"

"What about my friend Rob? How did you know he'd act the way he did?"
\
"We took advantage of your friends' love for spy films and his desire to be something else. What we didn't count on - was your ability to make friends so easily with the travellers and your friend Lenore being able to read shorthand."

"But the judge and the reporter are dead!"

"We know - but that was never anything to do with us. We took the opportunity of using the situation to our advantage. Your instincts are first rate and you trust your gut. We placed that notebook near you in the train station - just to see how you would react."

"You're bullshitting me. What about the cops? And the bloody fingerprint?"

"The Gardai followed McCarthy's orders because he thought there was a notebook. That guy is frightened that he won't be able to claim a pension with full benefits. He's dirty as shit and we don't like him. The bloody fingerprint was easy enough to fake as we had Pierce Carty's fingerprint on file. We were using the story to get rid of him and at the same time, get you onboard."

"Seriously?? All this? Just for me?"

"Well, it was a case of killing two birds with one stone, if you like. We've known about you since you were thirteen when you hacked the mainframe of the FBI Tony."

"Now you're yanking my chain."

"No I'm not. You have talents that we can hone and fine tune."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"We like people that think on their feet. People with several quality attributes."

"You want me to join ye??"

"Well, would you be interested?"