know you do, but what has to be said has to be said, and just when we’re on the subject of—’
‘You don’t have to—’
‘Listen to me—’
‘I’m telling you—’
‘Fuckin’ listen to me!’ Ructions snaps. You’re not an IRA commander now, Seamybo. I give the orders, and you take them. ‘My client would be really pissed off if the IRA turned up at his door—’
‘That won’t happen,’ Seamus says icily.
‘It’d better not.’
One shallow breath later, and Seamus’ irritation finds its voice.
Are you threatening me?’
‘I don’t do threats. I state the position on behalf of my client.’
‘Don’t talk to me like I’m a little boy.’
‘I’d never do that.’
‘It sounded very like it.’
‘If it did, then I apologise.’
Seamus swallows hard. ‘Okay. The IRA won’t find out about this from my end. You’ve my word of honour on that.’
Ructions puts on his glove again, unzips his golf bag and takes out a club. ‘I’ll finish this hole,’ he says. As he readies himself to take his shot, he turns to Seamus. ‘One last thing before we get down to the nitty-gritty …’
‘What?’
‘No regrets.’
‘I’m not with you.’
Ructions lets almost thirty seconds pass. ‘It’s simple: I don’t want you getting your greedy head on again after the job. I don’t want you whinging in my ear that you want more dough. The deal we do now is the only deal there is or will be. Are you with me?’
Seamus is aggrieved, almost to the point of distraction. ‘Are you trying to make an asshole out of me altogether?’
‘No. I’m stating—’
‘The position on behalf of your client. I know. I heard you the last time.’
Ructions puts out his hand again. ‘Do we have a deal?’
Seamus takes Ructions’ hand and this time his grip is firm. ‘We have a deal.’
TWO
Finbarr O’Hare’s face is as pallid as wet bonding plaster and his eyes are as black as the devil’s tongue. His father, Johnny ‘Panzer’ O’Hare, and Gerard ‘Geek’ O’Reilly – red-haired, red-faced and red-necked – watch Finbarr as he emerges from the farmhouse, which is affectionately known as the ‘Big House’. The 22-year-old strides purposefully across the farmyard towards the middle barn. Panzer rubs the grey stubble on his chin. There’s something on that gobshite’s mind, something nasty. Panzer’s suspicions are compounded when Finbarr lifts a pitchfork from the side of the barn and disappears through the barn door. ‘Go see what he’s up to,’ Panzer says to Geek.
In the middle barn, two mechanics, Rudy and ‘Apple’, are looking under the hood of a lorry. Another mechanic is down in the pit, working on the underside of a black Nissan car. Three piles of new tyres are stacked neatly in a corner. In another corner, fifty used car batteries and new exhaust parts fill the elevated shelving. A radio blasts out the latest hits from an oil-stained bench. A bare-breasted woman smoking a large cigar looks down from a calendar.
Finbarr walks over to the two mechanics and, holding the pitchfork in both hands, thrusts it into Apple’s left thigh. There is a scream of unsolicited agony as Apple turns around, the spanner in his hand poised to strike back. Finbarr puts the pitchfork to Apple’s neck, one hand flat against the base of the tool and the other holding the shaft from above. Apple drops the spanner.
Geek charges into the barn. ‘What the fuck’s going on here?’
‘Don’t ever call me a bastard again, or I swear,’ Finbarr says with a wicked grin on his face, ‘I’ll leave your windpipe so full of holes, people will think it’s a cheese grater.’
‘I didn’t—’
‘Shut your fuckin’ grease-trap!’ Finbarr growls, his hands gripping the pitchfork even tighter.
‘Finbarr,’ Geek shouts, ‘put it down and get out! Go on, get out ta fuck.’
Finbarr backs off, the pitchfork still pointed at Apple.
‘Rudy, bring Apple over to the Big House and patch him up.’
‘You’ve got off light,’ Finbarr says as he reaches the barn door. ‘Next time …’
‘Out, Finbarr,’ Geek orders. ‘Now!’
Finbarr leaves.
Apple puts his hand on his thigh, and when he brings it up again, it’s coated in blood. ‘The bastard stuck me in the leg! I’ll—’
‘You’ll thank your lucky stars he didn’t stick you in the windpipe,’ Geek says.
‘Are you going to let him away with this?’ Apple says in a hysterical voice.
‘I’m going to report it to the boss.’
‘Is that it? You’re going to tell Daddy his son was a bold boy? Is that all you’re going to do?’
‘What else do you want me to do? Shoot him? Maybe I should tell Panzer O’Hare you want his son shot?’
Apple screws up his face and turns to Rudy. ‘Fuck this. Take me to the hospital.’
Rudy looks at Geek, who nods his approval.
Ructions pulls up into the O’Hare farmyard, switches off the ignition and stares at the bronze statue of his grandfather on his horse, Phantom. The plaque on the plinth simply reads: THE DEVIL. Ructions had hardly known his legendary horse-dealing ancestor, but he has a vivid memory from his own sixth birthday, of standing outside the large gateway to the family’s stables in Yewtree Street, off Belfast’s Falls Road, and of holding his Granny Mary’s hand.
He still recalls the detestable fawn overcoat that covered his knees, the woolly ski mask that roasted his ears and the hearty pong of horse manure. In his granny’s other hand was a small white pipe, which she sometimes wedged into the right side of her toothless mouth. From beneath her black shawl, whiffs of white hair stuck out, while dough-coloured skin scarcely covered jutting cheek and jaw bones. ‘Keep your eyes peeled, James,’ Granny Mary had said, sucking on the pipe. ‘The Devil and his disciples will be coming soon.’ Bewildered, the young lad looked all around. On the far side of the stables’ entrance, the yellow streetlight seemed to flare up before becoming smothered in the early morning fog.
Even now, decades later, Ructions can hear the clip-clop
