on me.’
Panzer grabs Ructions’ cheeks in the palm of his hands and pulls his face close to his. ‘Son, if we have to shovel shit, we shovel shit together – not because we fear the IRA – but because it’s good tactics.’
Once more Ructions opts for silence; he wouldn’t know how to shovel shit.
‘But you are right about one thing.’
‘I am?’
‘Yeah. We’re paying tax to nobody. Fuck them all, the greedy bastards.’
Ructions smiles. ‘I’m starving. Fancy a hamburger?’
SIX
In Dublin, Finbarr sits on the wooden window ledge, gazing out at a long back garden that is surrounded on all sides by fir trees. Ennio Morricone’s ‘Gabriel’s Oboe’ from The Mission plays on the radio. ‘Benzo’ Mullins leans against a furry animal skin that adorns the back of a cream sofa. His feet are resting on a matching pouffe. The drug dealer’s eyes are closed and his right hand waves an invisible baton. Beside Benzo is Ian ‘Twenty Bellies’ McClure, rubbing his Uzi sub-machine gun with a cloth.
Finbarr speculates whether a cut-throat razor had been used to give Benzo his ‘Glasgow smile’. He reckons that the scars at the corners of his mouth are each about an inch long. Involuntarily, he strokes the sides of his own mouth with his thumb and index finger.
Geek O’Reilly does not take drugs, but he knows that Finbarr has a nose for coke, so he invites him to sample the goods. Finbarr comes over to the glass coffee table, bends down and, using a rolled-up ten-euro note as a funnel, snorts a line of coke. He throws back his head.
‘Well?’ Geek asks.
The innocuous grin on Finbarr’s face soon turns into a full-blown smile. ‘It’s good stuff.’
Benzo stands up, walks towards Geek, puts one hand on his shoulder and points a finger at the kitchen. ‘That mule is carrying an awful lot of Charlie. Now, tell me you’re going to look after her, coz the minute she walks out of here, she and Charlie are your responsibility.’
‘It’s all sorted,’ Geek says.
‘How are they getting up to Belfast?’
‘That’s my concern.’
Benzo makes an appealing face. ‘Indulge me.’
‘Like I said, how Charlie reaches Belfast is my concern.’
Benzo nods. Twenty Bellies, sub-machine gun in hand, stands up. ‘That’s okay, but terms still have to be agreed.’
‘Of course,’ Geek says.
‘You get a month’s credit.’
‘No problem.’
‘Ahh!’
Geek remains unmoved by Benzo’s outburst. ‘What’s wrong?’ he asks soberly.
‘I hate those fuckin’ words! Every cunt that tells me there’ll be no problem ends up being the fuckin’ problem.’
‘Hey!’ Geek snaps, ‘I’m no cunt.’
‘I didn’t mean it like—’
‘When you call me a cunt, you call my boss a cunt, and he takes exception to being called a cunt.’
Benzo nods slowly. ‘No disrespect intended, Geek. You’re no cunt, and neither is my good friend Panzer—’
‘What a strange name,’ Geek says with a glint in his eye. ‘I can’t say I know anyone by that name.’
Unruffled by the sudden spike in tension, Benzo strokes the scar at the right side of his mouth. ‘You’ve got your ways of doing things and I’ve got mine, and business is business. I want my two hundred large by this time next month. No excuses, no sob stories. I really don’t give an elephant’s fart if your boss is down the bury hole and you’re lying on top of him. I want my poke. And if the gear’s caught, I still get my poke.’
‘Are you finished?’ Geek says.
Benzo whispers in Geek’s ear. ‘The General had a saying: “familiarity is the slippery slope to bad judgement”. This way, nobody can say they didn’t know the score if one of the boys has to blow them away.’
‘My boss has a saying,’ Geek says. ‘“Don’t make threats – but keep promises”.’
Finbarr is open-mouthed, his eyes shifting from Geek to Benzo and back. He hears a swaggering voice inside his head: Cheeky bastard! One of your boys will blow who away? Me? My old man? Ructions? And what are we going to be doing, eh? Blowing bubbles out our arses?
Benzo has said his piece and decides against making things worse. ‘Your boss is a man of honour, Geek, a man I respect.’
‘That he is. Finbarr, go see to the mule.’
‘Sure.’ Finbarr goes into the bathroom where Beatrice, a friend of Peteris, is strapping a cocaine belt around her midriff.
‘It heavy,’ Beatrice says, as she adjusts the cocaine belt for comfort.
‘Get it right, Bee,’ Finbarr says. ‘Take your time.’ Beatrice puts on her dress and coat. Finbarr inspects her. Nothing looks amiss. ‘Stay here.’ He goes back to the living room. ‘That’s us ready for the road.’
‘Stall,’ Benzo says. He takes out his mobile and dials a woman who is scouting the area in a car, looking for signs of a police presence.
‘Anything?’
‘Nothing.’
‘No cops,’ Benzo says, offering his hand to Geek, ‘and no hard feelings?’
‘None. As you say, business is business.’
‘Give your boss my best, will ya?’
‘Will do.’
‘And tell him it’s a pleasure to do business with him. Yeah?’
‘Sure. Finbarr, you and the mule leave first.’
Panzer and Ructions are sharing a table along with some French supporters in the front garden of The Bath Pub beside the Lansdowne Road Stadium in Dublin. Directly below them is a white bath that has been converted into a flowerbed. Standing behind them on the tiled walkway to the bar entrance is a host of Irish supporters singing the Irish national anthem.
An earthy, rumbustious voice emerges from amongst the passing rugby fans. ‘Ructions! Ructions!’
Ructions stretches his neck to see who is calling his name. Serge approaches, bedecked in a French scarf and a welcoming smile. Ructions holds out his arms to Serge and they hug.
‘Bonjour, mon ami,’ Serge says, glowing with delight.
