The camera cut back to another of Neris’s live shows. She was wearing a different dress, so it must have been a different event. From the stage she asked, “I’ve got a message here for a man called Ray.”

She scanned the theater. “We got a Ray? Come on, Ray, we know you’re here.”

A large man got to his feet. He was wearing an enormous plaid shirt and had a big redneck quiff held in place with shiny pomade; he looked mortified.

“You’re Ray?”

He nodded, and gingerly accepted the mike from the runner.

“Ray,” and Neris was laughing. “I’m being told here that you don’t believe in any of this psychic BS. Is that so?”

Ray said something that we didn’t hear.

“Speak into the mike, honey.”

Ray leaned over and enunciated into the microphone, like he was under oath at a murder trial, “No, ma’am, I do not.”

“You didn’t want to come here tonight, did you?”

“No, ma’am, I did not.”

“But you came along because someone else asked you to, right?”

“Yes, ma’am. Leeanne, my wife.”

The camera moved to the woman beside him, a shrunken little thing with a mushroom of teased blond hair, like cotton candy. Leeanne, presumably.

“You know who’s telling me all this?” Neris asked.

“No, ma’am.”

“It’s your mama.”

Ray said nothing, but his face kind of shut down—the sign of a hardman redneck trying to fight back emotion.

“She didn’t die easy, did she?” Neris said gently.

“No, ma’am. She had the cancer. The pain was real bad.”

“But she’s not in pain now. Where she is is ‘better than any morphine,’ she’s telling me. She wants me to tell you that she loves you, that you’re a good boy, Ray.”

Tears were pouring down Ray’s ruddy cheeks and we were shown shots of several other people who were also crying.

“Thank you, ma’am,” Ray said hoarsely, and sat back down, receiving claps on the back and handclasps from the people around him.

The next scene was of people streaming out of the theater into the lobby, saying stuff like “I don’t mind telling you I had no faith in this woman. I’m not too proud to tell you that I was wrong.”

A brisk, loud, New York type cut in. “Unbelievable. I mean, unbelievable.”

Someone else said “Awesome,” and someone else said, “I got a message from my husband. I’m so happy he’s okay. Thank you, Neris Hemming.”

This cranked up my excitement to fever pitch. I’d have her all to myself for an entire half hour. Half an hour to talk to Aidan.

59

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: Week from hell

God, Anna. Disastrous week. Mum went to the shrine at Knock last Saturday and brought back holy water in Evian bottle and left it in kitchen. Sunday morning when I’d bit of a thirst on me ’cos of amount drank night before, guzzled it down before realizing it tasted disgusting and there were funny things floating in it.

Two hours later, thrun down, roaring for a bucket. Puking rings around myself. Dying. Dry heaves, bile, the whole lot. Worse than any hangover. Lying on bathroom floor, holding stomach, begging to be put out of misery.

Monday morning, still puking at full throttle. No way could sit in Detta’s hedge for ten hours. Doc came, said I was badly poisoned and I’d be out of action for four/five days. Rang Colin, told him sorry story. He laughed and said, I’ll tell Harry, but he’s not going to like it.

Two seconds later, Harry rang, shouting his head off, going on about “more than generous retainer” (it is) he has me on, and what if today is the day that Detta checks into hotel room with Racey O’Grady and I’m not there to record it and that would really annoy him and I know what happens to people who annoy him. (Get nailed to pool table, just in case you forgot.) So I said, Hold on minute. Went and puked, then came back and said, I’ll sort something out.

What could I do? Had to send Mum. She’d been dying to see Detta’s clothes and house anyway. Off she goes with binoculars and sandwiches and cardboard cup in case she was caught short and as luck would shagging well have it, on Thursday Detta publicly met Racey O’Grady. (Maybe was wrong to think that Harry Big is delusional paranoid.) They met in restaurant in Ballsbridge—can’t get more high-profile than that. Even had decency to sit in window.

Mum shot off load of photos on phone and came home and we got them on computer, which was when discovered that Mum doesn’t know how to work phone camera. She’d taken the pictures using wrong side of phone and we had load of lovely close-ups of her skirt, up her sleeve, and half of her face.

Low moment. Really thought it was crucifixion time. Thought about skipping country, then thought, Ah, what the hell, how bad can crucifixion be? So rang Colin, who took me to Harry, who took it surprisingly well. Just sort of sighed and looked into his glass of milk for a long time, then said, These things happen even in the best run of organizations. Carry on with the surveillance.

But, to be honest, Anna, I’ve had enough. Job too boring, apart from times when afraid am going to be nailed to pool table. Only thing that’s interesting about it is Colin.

So said to Harry: From Mum’s description, Detta was definitely with Racey. Can’t you just confront Detta?

Him: Are ya mad? Have you a clue? No one goes into any situation making half-baked allegations. Nothing happens until I’ve proof.

Later Colin told me that Harry is in denial. No amount of proof will ever be enough. In other words, will be doing this fucking job until end of time.

Mum demanded cash for the week’s work. Also had to promise to lie in wait for woman with dog and take photos.

An e-mail from Mum arrived, too.

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: Crucifixion

Dear Anna,

I hope you are keeping well. I had a terrible week. Helen drank my Knock holy water, and I had it promised to Nuala Freeman, who seemed quite annoyed when I told her what happened. Can you blame her, she has been very good to me, bringing me back a “bootleg” DVD of The Passion of the Christ that time she went to Medjagory (or however it’s spelled). (Just out of curiosity, do you know why are there so many thes in THE Passion of THE Christ?)