Irish Tag

Fifty seconds from detonation, the one sound on the Brighton promenade got here from the English Channel. The tide was high, waves thudding ashore, a couple of fishermen standing within the surf like moonlit sentinels.Forty seconds. Barely a breeze to ruffle the night. The biting wind and rain that had appeared to presage winter earlier within the week had given option to stillness. It was not even cold. Darkness draped the Grand’s eight-story facade, its windows black squares save for a couple of scattered glows, like a large crossword.Thirty seconds. Two pedestrians – a DJ and a manager from the Pink Coconut nightclub making their way home – turned from West Street on to the promenade. A police transit van,...