Belfast 1982 - Sean Duffy, with a strange corpse on his hands, prepares to take up the slack as Army regiments leave for the Falklands. The second in a trilogy that really takes the reader into the war zone that was Northern Ireland on the eighties. Black humour and the sense of comradeship in Duffy's RUC team, ensure this is not the totally grim read that it might have been but perhaps still not a first choice for a relaxing day on the beach.
I went out into the car park and said 'Shite! Shite! Shite!' before lighting a fag. I tried to think of a curse but Irish articulacy had clearly declined since the days of Wilde and Yeats, Synge and Shaw. Three 'shites' and a ciggie, that was what we could come up with in these diminished times.