Cold Eye of Heaven, The by Christine Dwyer Hickey

Farley. They had taken over the two rooms after the dress-hire woman had packed it in, leaving a right bang behind her – old perfume and dead women’s sweat – that no amount of airing or Noreen’s Highland Heather could subdue. For a few years they’d used the space for storage, then, when Farley became a partner, it had been decided to turn them into offices. One for Frank, the other for himself. About which time young Tony Slowey decided to honour the company with his presence. And so Farley had let him have the office. Partly because he knew that the others wouldn’t work well for Tony out in the main room, and partly because Frank, without quite asking, had asked.
    He turns the doorknob of Tony’s office – locked, of course. The cute bastard, no doubt has something to hide.
    The door to Frank’s office opens with a tell-tale-tattler’s whine; the neatness inside betrays the fact that Frank hasn’t so much as stuck his nose in for the past few weeks. Because between one thing and another and Cheltenham included, he’s been sticking it elsewhere. ‘Time for us oulfellas to start taking a step back,’ he’d said, a few years after Tony had come in. What he’d really meant was, time for you to stay where you are, and for me to spend more time racing. Not that he’d minded – the truth was he’d rather have been here than anywhere else. And besides, someone had to keep an eye on young Slowey.
    At the desk now he pulls out a drawer. Old notebooks and legal forms that have recently become obsolete. A confetti of ancient bookie dockets. A stainless steel comb. At the back the baby bottle of brandy that Frank always keeps for bad news and accidents. He opens the second drawer: an array of unused gifts from various staff members over the years; lighters still in their boxes; cartons of old cigars; pen and pencil sets, or pens on their own – like nobody ever noticed that Frank, apart from the very odd cigar, had given up smoking and that due to some obscure little superstition, has always preferred to write in an ordinary green-inked biro. In the last drawer Farley finds an old-fashioned hardbacked ledger – Slowey & Co.; 1960 – their very first job book. He flicks through the pages, plenty of them blank. The end of June 1960 records forty-nine jobs for the month. By December the number has increased to 102. Slowey’s green comment at the bottom of the pages: ‘A hundred jobs in one month. Did we ever think we’d see the day!!!!’ Farley claps the book shut; a hundred jobs in a month? They’d see that in one day now, and the rest of it.
    Replacing the job book he notices the silver corner of a photograph frame. Cracked glass at one corner. The frame nearly comes apart in his hand. He lays it carefully on the desk, puts on his specs and the Slowey family shift into focus. Michael’s first communion day; taken about twenty years ago, judging by the age of the kids. There’s Tony, like a bean-pole, the big mop of hair on him, of which not one blade remains. Miriam next, a teenager dressed up like a little oulone. And young Jamesie looking down at his feet, as if he’s ashamed to be part of the family photo. At oneend of the group sits Slowey, his hand on little Michael’s shoulder; steadying him up. And Kathleen on the far end, in a ladylike perch on the edge of the photographer’s sofa. He remembers that dress – green leaves with flecks of orange, although time and the camera have dulled its colours. He remembers the matching shoes and bag too. The dress was made of a silky material. Farley returns the frame to the bottom of the drawer, then changes his mind. He takes it back out, pulls it apart and releases the photograph, then lifting the wastepaper basket to the corner of the desk, scoops bits of wood, glass and sly little nails, into its open mouth.
    He lifts the photograph, folds it once, then