The Death of a Joyce Scholar
“Never, not for her leaving certification or Garda exams, even for her interviews for the Squad, had she felt so nervous and discombobulated and just generally…sick. That was it. She was so destroyed over the miserable little shite who probably never gave her a passing thought, or worse, hated who she was and what she stood for—herself, mostly, up until now—that, pausing before the ancient, battered, quayside building in which Ward kept his digs, she actually felt nauseous.How in the name of St.... Peter, to whom she prayed every night for strength, had she allowed it to happen? And just when she’d been availed the opportunity of proving herself, and had come back with exactly what the Chief had wanted. McKeon had said, “Well—not half bad, Rut’ie. Your report of the interview in particular; how you led them on with the cute little culchie bit. Mind, it won’t work around here.” He had pointed to a stack of correspondence, but it was the first kind word she had ever heard from the sergeant, whom she regarded as the second hardest man in the universe.But when she heard in his next breath what had happened to Ward, she despaired.MoreLess
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