than when he went in.
A fat rat disappears behind the back of the stables and scurries along the wall into the nearby field. ‘I’m gonna have to do something about these rats,’ Panzer says as he gets into the driving seat of the golf buggy.
The drive across Hannahstown to the Black Mountain is interrupted only by occasional greetings from walkers and joggers, most of whom know Panzer as ‘The King of Hannahstown’ – a title bestowed upon him by an over-zealous press. They pull up just below the BBC Television mast and alight. Ructions lifts the golf bag and slings it over his shoulder. A pathway of squishy, rubbery mats cuts a corridor across the mountain. It seems to Ructions that the mats, with their hundreds of tiny squares, are losing the battle against the encroaching moss and bogland. Nature is the real king up here. Soon they cross the wooden bridge, veer right, and then carry on to the end of the rubber pathway. They toddle along silently, each man cultivating his own thoughts, until eventually they cut down the mountain and halt before a steep drop.
‘My God,’ Panzer exclaims, ‘will you look at that?’ He inhales deeply, his chest expanding and his shoulders rising and falling. ‘I’ve been up here hundreds of times and every time, it just … it just knocks the malt out of me.’
‘It never lets you down, that’s for sure,’ Ructions replies, his eyes straying right to the hazy Mountains of Mourne.
Belfast’s two giant shipyard gantry cranes, ‘Samson and Goliath’, reach up into the ripe late-autumn sky. Two cross-channel ferries pass each other in the shipping lanes of Belfast Lough. A doe rabbit bolts out of the side of the mountain and runs into a bank to their right.
Ructions reaches into the golf bag. ‘Five iron, M’Lord?’
‘Oh, I don’t think so, O’Hare,’ Panzer says fancifully. ‘I rather think I want distance today. Perhaps the driver?’
‘An excellent choice, M’Lord.’
Both men put their tees in the ground and set their golf balls on top of them. Ructions’ practice swings have the fluidity of one who knows what he’s doing.
‘So, nephew, our insider,’ Panzer says, ‘do you trust him? I mean, do you really trust him to—’
‘He’s a she,’ Ructions says, ‘and yeah, she’s sound.’ Ructions draws back slowly and drives the ball so far that it disappears beneath the curvature of the mountain.
‘Not bad,’ Panzer says, standing over his ball. He steps away and sits down on a large stone. ‘So tell me about her?’
‘Her name’s Eleanor Proctor—’
‘A Prod?’
‘No, she’s a Catholic who married a Prod. You would’ve known her old man … Tommy O’Driscoll.’
‘“The Fair Man”?’
‘One and the same.’
‘I knew Tommy well. He was the best councillor ever to sit on Belfast City Council. Did me a few turns with planning applications, he did.’ Panzer addresses his golf ball, then turns back to Ructions. ‘What’s she like, this Eleanor?’
‘She’s feisty.’
‘What way feisty?’
‘She knows her own mind; she’ll not be led.’
‘Not even by you?’
Ructions hesitates as he tries to find the right words. ‘She’s a strong woman.’
‘You never answered my question.’
‘She’s helping us because she wants to.’
‘Ah, but why does she want to?’ Panzer asks. ‘That’s what I want to know. What’s in it for her?’
‘Me.’
‘You?’
‘Me.’
Panzer kicks the ground below him, just like he had done before he settled up with the greyhound owner with the Dali moustache.
Come on, Panzer. Spit it out – whatever it is.
‘You’re wondering what’s going through my mind, aren’t you?’ Panzer says.
Ructions shrugs.
‘I’ll tell you. I’m asking myself if my right arm has fallen for the mark.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous? I’ll be as ridiculous as I fucking well want to be.’
Ructions zips up his golf bag, an act not unnoticed by Panzer. ‘Shall we head back?’ Ructions says.
Panzer stands directly in front of Ructions. ‘You don’t think I’ve a right to ask hard questions?’
‘Sure you have, and I’ve no problem answering them. But suggesting I’ve fallen for the mark—’ Ructions points his finger. ‘That’s way out of order. I deserve better than that from you and you know it.’
Panzer puts his hands on Ructions’ shoulders and looks into his eyes. ‘Ructions, son, this is serious shit, and I don’t mind admitting I get the jitters every time I think of this job. I can’t remember myself ever being so edgy.’
‘So am I. But it’ll be all right, boss. Believe me, it’ll be sweet.’
Panzer sighs deeply. ‘I honestly hope so – for both our sakes.’
‘You’ve my word on it, it’ll be fine.’
‘Your word is good enough for me.’ Panzer waves his hand dismissively. ‘Your turn.’
Ructions unzips his golf bag, takes out a ball and hits it down the mountain.
‘So tell me, how did Eleanor meet the Prod?’
‘Eleanor met Frank Proctor at Queen’s University. They were both on the Students’ Executive Management Committee and they hit it off. She graduated in sociology and politics and he in economics. She became a social worker, and he’s a banker.’
‘Does she know about Maria?’
‘Yep.’
‘She can’t be too happy about her being around.’
‘She isn’t, but I’ve promised I’ll drop her.’
‘I’ll leave that end of things to you. You’ve a flair for handling the women,’ Panzer says, addressing his ball again. ‘That Maria comes from good stock. Her father, Mickey McArdle, dabbled in the greyhounds for a while. Good man. Helped me out on a few occasions when I needed to … well, smoothed some wrinkles.’
‘What type of wrinkles?’
‘The less said the better, Ructions. Let’s just say,
