Lorna Cuddy was used to getting feature story suggestions from her dad back home. Most centred on five-legged donkeys or the dangers of fairy forts. However, none fascinated the Pulitzer-winning, Irish-born writer, as much as this one. This time, he was part of the story. And so was she. Her dad’s childhood friend Peadar Gibbons, had, on his fiftieth birthday, walked into his local Garda police station in a west of Ireland town, saying he had some things to get off his chest. But Peadar was deemed 'harmless’, a man who had lived on the fringes of society; extra-average. Just another solitary life in a small town. It was a Sunday evening. A quiet one. And tea-time in the police station. Not a time for big confessions. So the officer sent him home with the advice to ‘write it all down.’ After all, Peadar liked writing short stories, and had penned ‘posh poems that didn't rhyme’. Taking down his Remington typewriter and punching out fifty chapters of a life less ordinary, Peadar would later present the Gardai with what they described as the ‘most elaborate document of admission the force had ever receive.’ Written with a frankness befitting a man who wanted to be unburdened; to be noticed though not stared at; to be talked of, not talked about. Struggling to find his way in a changing Ireland; not good enough to deserve a decent chance at home. Not confident enough to try his luck overseas. Stuck in a life of horror, incidents, and consequences. Left with nothing but his confession.