She was gorgeous. The room was lit only by the tree lights and the flickering glow from the wood-stove in the corner. Her almost-black hair shone slig...tly, the sides of her bob cut swept back and held in place by red ribbon. It matched the red V-neck sweater and plaid woollen skirt she wore over a black turtleneck and tights. She looked at me enquiringly as I reached under the tree and pulled out a mid-sized box.“I can’t be with you for our first Christmas together, so I wanted to give this to. . . and we know that. We have to play these head games to keep from screaming. We are neurotic . . . perhaps sometimes a little psychotic. Aid to the civil power—that’s what we’re doing. All we want to do is get drunk, get laid, sleep for eons. Sleep is the elusive angel of our lusts. We never get enough sleep. We never have enough men. Everyone laughs at us – the IRA, the RUC, the protestants, the Catholics. We never do anything right. We are too little too late. And now Riley is dying – this. More

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