December 22nd, 2011. I awake muzz-headed and examine last night's evidence: a selfie, taken in a city-centre bar, of Claire Kilroy and Paul Murray and me, grinning scribblers on a pre-Christmas bender; the artist Gary Coyle is in the foreground, mugging for the camera. I smirk and send the picture, and Claire comes back, full of bonhomie and joyous wishes for the season. But later that day she texts me again: Caroline Walsh is dead.
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