With the whole ordeal with his dad still fresh news on the island, gossips and lowlifes couldn’t help but gather their own piece of opinion on it. It was a sore spot for Rafe. He knew it, you knew it. Ever since meeting you, you substituted as an anchor for him. Tying his impulsivity down. Mellowing him out. He never thanked you for it, but you knew he was grateful.

At a pub between the Cut and Figure Eight, many kooks and pogues ended there for a drink after the Kildare Enduro motorcycle race earlier that day. All was well, Rafe had a drink in his hand, you by his side.

A small murmur here and there; a girl whispered to her friend shit talking the story of Rafe’s dad. Saying Ward Cameron was a ‘murderer’. It was adjacently true before he passed, but it was nevertheless a sour topic for Rafe.

He heard it and his head snapped. The alcohol in him fueling his anger. He stormed over with an angered chuckle.

“What was that? No- listen, listen, if you want to whisper some bullshit behind my back, why don’t you just say it to my f*cking face? I’m standing right here. Got something to say, say it to my face.”