‘Is there any point in hitting a ball?’
‘It’ll lift soon,’ Seamus says, his head tilting backwards as he scans the mist for signs of a break in the weather.
Ructions inhales the dewy crispness in the air as Seamus slowly pulls back his driver and drills the ball into the lifting mist. ‘Straight up the middle.’
‘You think so?’
‘I know so. I haven’t missed this fairway in ten years.’
Ructions pushes his tee into the ground and sets a golf ball on top of it. He takes some practice swings and focuses: arms straight, eye on the ball and a sharp strike. His ball flies straight into the trees to the right.
‘A decent effort,’ Seamus says, ‘but you didn’t aim for the fairway. You’ll find your ball easy enough.’
The two men pull their golf trolleys up the fairway.
‘Do you ever miss it, Seamus? The IRA … the struggle?’
‘Nah. It’d run its course. Too many people died for too little, Ructions, and too much time was spent in jail. Like, I’ve done twelve solid years.’
‘Yeah, you told me that last time.’
‘Did I? There y’are now. You were saying?’
‘Saying what?’
‘About big money.’
‘Oh, right. My client—’
‘Panzer O’Hare—’
Ructions gives Seamus the undertaker’s stare: measured and stern. ‘My uncle is not the client.’
Seamus studies Ructions with bemused eyes. Are you trying to read my thoughts, Ructions? You are, you fucking reprobate. Seamus cannot turn back the tide of a smile. Neither can Ructions. Both men have worked together before, and each knows that Panzer is the client, but for Ructions to acknowledge it would be unprofessional. Seamus puts up his hands. ‘Sorry about that.’
Ructions nods his acceptance of the apology. They walk towards the trees. ‘My client is committed to investing a large sum of money in a team that would be prepared to hold some people for twenty-four hours – thirty-six max.’
‘Yes?’
‘The money would be paid up front.’
‘Before the move?’
‘Yes.’
‘So all they’ve to do is to hold people till the job is over? Nothing else?’
‘That’s it.’
‘And the money, it’d be …’
‘Made available twenty-four hours before the job commences.’
Seamus points towards the trees. ‘Your ball is in there.’
The two men go into the trees to search for Ructions’ ball. Ructions finds it and takes a club out of his golf bag.
Seamus walks up the fairway. His thoughts are like dodgem cars crashing into one another. We get paid before the move? But no percentage of the take? Old Panzer must be expecting some turn. Demand a percentage of the take. Hold on there, Seamus, ye boy ye. Ructions will walk if you do that. Maybe he won’t. He’ll get another team. He will. He won’t. He will.
Ructions chips his ball out of the trees. The mist has lifted, as Seamus had predicted. His ball is in the middle of the fairway, as he had also predicted. He takes out his five wood and drives the ball to the edge of the green.
‘Nice shot,’ Ructions says. ‘You should make your par.’ Ructions hits his ball up the centre of the fairway. They amble on.
‘If a man was to express an interest in this job,’ Seamus says haughtily, ‘what, ahh, what sort of wages might he expect to take home, like?’
‘One hundred and fifty large.’
Seamus’ arching eyebrows tell Ructions everything he needs to know. Realising immediately that he has made a serious faux pas, Seamus tries to sound non-committal. ‘Not bad. How many men?’
‘That’d be up to the controller, but it’s straightforward enough. I’d say three – four at the very most. And it’d be up to the controller how much he pays his workers. As long as the job gets done, that’s none of my business.’
‘I see.’ Seamus stops and turns to Ructions. ‘And how much money is there in the job?’
‘That’s none of your business.’
Seamus can’t shackle the greedy voice in his head: ask for a percentage of the take. ‘Ah, but it is my business. I’d like to think there’d be a percentage—’
‘Shh!’ Ructions says, as he zips up the top of his golf bag and unclips the button on his glove. ‘Be seeing you, Seamus.’ Ructions puts out his hand.
Astonished at the sudden turn of events, Seamus automatically takes Ructions’ hand, but his grip is weak.
‘This conversation,’ Ructions says, ‘never happened, okay?’
Seamus looks like a man who has pulled his house apart and still cannot find his winning lottery ticket. ‘Wow, Ructions, wow! We can talk about this, can’t we?’
Ructions looks at his watch. ‘I need to go. I’ve to be up the road for half-eleven.’
Seamus has no idea where ‘up the road’ might be, and he cares even less. Sensing that his stock is dwindling away, he decides to play the man-to-man card, chuckling and holding up his hands appealingly. ‘Come on now, Ructions, you’re not gonna blame me for having a rattle, are you?’
‘You declared your hand,’ Ructions says, ‘and I’ve moved on. That’s it.’
Seamus smiles and points a golf club at Ructions. ‘You’d have done exactly the same thing. Admit it.’
If Seamus finds the situation amusing, Ructions doesn’t. He rolls his head from one side to the other, as if evaluating his options.
‘I got greedy,’ Seamus says. ‘It won’t happen again.’
‘No more shit talk.’
‘Gotcha, buddy.’
No, I’ve got you, Seamybo – and by the cobblers too. ‘Okay. Now, if I was to give you this job, I’d expect the same protocols as before.’
‘I know – no forensic traces left behind, everything on a need-to-know basis.’
‘I’d want a clean, professional operation.’
‘Isn’t it always?’
‘As always, you’re the only one on your side who knows who I am, and I’m the only one on
