Many miles down the Coomstock Road, far from any other habitation, two cyclists stopped in pouring rain at an unexpected & welcome apparition-a small inn whose neon sign tinted the falling drops with the heart-quickening words FREE LUNCH in yellow letters and, below, in Bacchic purple: FREE WINE. Minutes later, two India rubber capes hung dripping in the hall & two youths sat by a peat fire in a crudely furnished dining room, steam rising from their clothes. They were attended by a crookbacked corduroy-clad waiter, almost toothless, with vigorous tufts of snowy hair sprouting from his nose & ear holes. In a quavering brogue, he assured the sceptical lads that there were no strings attached, they were guests of the management & could eat & drink here, gratis. Not only that, but the repast they were invited to partake of would, he guaranteed, nourish & refresh them as never before. The chef was a magus, a miracle-worker, & possibly an angel of the principality class. The boys exchanged glances-how credulous the peasantry in these remote provinces could be! The waiter filled their glasses, bowed clumsily & withdrew. At eighteen, tall & blanched like an etiolated shoot, Unic is the younger of the two cyclists. His mother is dead, killed three years ago in the coup which ousted his father from his gangster fiefdom in the Balkans. Since then father & son have lived in penurious exile in Dublin. His father, once famous for his powers of oratory, now lies mute in bed in a room with the curtains drawn, his needs provided for by a small retinue of fellow exiles. The other, Edward, is short & dark. He's an unemployed hodcarrier from Humberside on what he reasons may be his last holiday. He's bald after a recent course of chemotherapy. Cynical even before his cancer had been diagnosed, his cynicism has metastasised, as it were, & his whole being is now riddled with black nihilism. Three days ago, he & Unic, strangers, had met at a Hike W Bike Youth Hostel. The next night, following their forcible ejection from a bar, they were mugged by yokels & left penniless. Returning before dawn to pitch a car battery through the bar's plate glass, they didn't rest before putting forty miles between themselves & what Edward, indulging his taste for spoonerisms, called the cream of the sign. These adventures had forged a bond that was further cemented when it emerged that both boys packed ragged copies of Les Fleurs du Mal in their haversacks. They were brothers, in word, in deed, & in steed: both favoured fixed wheels over gears & both rode lightweight track bikes-not the conventional choice for such rough ter-rain & inclement weather. -Credulous peasants! Edward sneered as they whizzed past a roadside shrine hung with votive offerings. -Seeing is believing! Unic had said. But was it? Silently, Edward had reversed the aphorism. If believing was seeing, he thought, they were both stone blind. Now Edward pushed his chair back from the table, caught a burp in his hand & inhaled its aroma through his nose, savouring the olfactory ghost of the meal he'd just enjoyed. The waiter had not been exaggerating. The most edifying experience of Edward's life, the free lunch had freed him. He felt new-born, lighter-than-air, too happy to speak. He tried to catch his friend's eye, but, on his third helping, there was still a chop on Unic's plate & he was in private communion with it, staring at it so intently that Edward gave up. Instead, he reviewed what he had just consumed. Six, no, seven chops, bones & all, a bill of mashed potatoes irrigated with golden rivulets of butter, three helpings of braised broccoli, candied carrots, parsnips, roasted onions & cobs of sweetcorn, all washed down with draught after draught of a rich dark wine like fluent rubies. …