she had not imagined the voices.
Her heartbeat bounced her forwards, almost audible in a lofty space where only the air-conditioning unit buzzed quietly in the background.
‘Come here, you dirty girl. Come to Paddy.’
And there it was. No doubt in her mind. Paddy’s voice, thick with the lustful intent that she recognised immediately. Blatant, inconsiderate bastard. Shitting on his own doorstep. This was a new low.
Though she knew the flintlock was not loaded, she kept the heavy gun hoisted high on her shoulder. Deciding how to tackle this situation. Her options were: walk away and pretend she had not happened upon what was almost certainly a clandestine coupling; shout, ‘Hello!’ announcing her presence, giving them time to make themselves respectable and fashion some bullshit excuse; or creep up on the bastards and give them the fright of their lives.
Padding towards the sound of heavy breathing and the rustle of fabric, Sheila realised the sauna held her husband and his extra-marital mate. The door was standing open. The sound of giggling and Paddy’s lascivious groaning slid out on the steamy, seamy air.
Following the gun’s line of sight, Sheila held her breath. Anger grabbing her natural reticence by the throat and squeezing the apologetic life out of it. She took a noiseless step into the cedar-clad cabana and hefted the gun up to Paddy’s head. His eyes were shut. A beatified smile was plastered across his lying, scheming face. At his feet, a naked young blonde was crouched, gobbling his cock with some enthusiasm. The soles of her feet were dirty, the heels crusty with dried skin.
‘Surprise!’ Sheila said, savouring the sight of her sexually incontinent husband grabbing at his heart and almost leaping clear of the cabana bench.
With a yelp, the young woman – no more than a girl – jumped to her feet, covering her silicone breasts with splayed fingers. Bitten fingernails. Not a mark on her belly, though. This one had certainly not borne children. But then, Paddy always liked them young.
‘Who are you?’ the girl shouted.
‘I’m his damned wife,’ Sheila said, intoxicated by the heady bloodlust. She swung the barrel of the flintlock towards the girl and dug it into her right breast. ‘That’s who I am. Mrs Bleeding O’Brien. And you’re trespassing in my house and on my husband.’
The girl’s face wrinkled up into an expression that threatened tears or a bout of hysteria. But there was something familiar about her.
‘Sheila. You’re out of fucking line!’ Paddy said. ‘It’s not what you think. You’re frightening her, you bullying bitch. She’s only a kid.’
Only a kid. Only a kid. That’s where she knew the girl from. She scrutinised the line of the girl’s eyebrows beneath the heavy, dark eyebrow pencil. Noticed the shape of her lips beneath the now-smudged Ronald McDonald red lipstick.
‘Didn’t you go to school with my Dahlia?’ she asked, pushing the barrel hard into the girl’s breast bone. ‘Stacey Wheelan.’
‘Tracy Wheelan,’ the girl said. A meek, almost infantile voice, as her false lashes flickered shamefully down towards her vajazzle and back up towards Paddy. Pleading eyes, clearly wishing her sugar daddy would sweeten this bitter confrontation and make Sheila somehow dissolve clean away.
‘Get out,’ Sheila simply said. ‘Go on. Sling your hook, you little slag.’
‘Go on, love,’ Paddy told the girl. His voice was soft, but Sheila could see from the hard set of his mouth that he was seething. And his livid gaze was trained directly on Sheila, scorching its way through her skin.
The storm was coming. Sheila felt suddenly far less brave. Knew instinctively that the unloaded flintlock would be her undoing.
‘I’m sorry,’ Tracy Wheelan said to neither of them in particular. She grabbed her cheap clothes and scuffed stilettos and shuffled over to the subterranean spa exit. Clattered up the stone steps to ground level. Was gone.
Paddy grabbed the barrel of the gun and wrenched it out of Sheila’s hands.
‘You bitch,’ he said. On his feet now, his nakedness in that enclosed space felt suddenly oppressive. The roundness of his belly pinned her up against the sweaty wall. His erect penis stuck into her navel like an angry thorn. She could smell beer and cigarettes on his breath. He had spent lunchtime in the pub, clearly. Probably some shithole in Parson’s Croft, where he and Conky had swung by to collect protection subs.
‘I was only doing her a favour. Giving her a bit of a shoulder to cry on. Her mam’s just died, for Christ’s sake. She was cut up. I was tense. I’ve been working all the hours God sends and getting no comfort off you. I was giving you space, She.’ Paddy’s eyebrows knitted together. His nostrils flared as he breathed rapidly. In, out, in, out, like a panther waiting to pounce. ‘There was no harm in it. But you’ve just scarred a young girl for life, you jealous, snooping cow.’
Realising she could not easily make a bolt for freedom now that she was pinned against the wall, Sheila whispered, ‘Sorry, Pad.’ Defensively, she raised her hands to her face.
Paddy rammed the butt of the flintlock into her ribs. The air escaped her lungs in a hiss. The pain was intense.
‘Nasty, bullying bitch.’ Spittle flew from Paddy’s mouth as he brought the flat of the stock down onto her cheekbone.
‘Stop, Paddy!’ Sheila cried, clasping at the side of her face. ‘That’s going to bruise, for Christ’s sake! I bought you the guns to say sorry. I’m sorry, Pad!’ Tears streamed from her eyes, though she struggled hard to hold them inside. Didn’t want to show him how much she was hurting or how frightened and vulnerable she suddenly felt.
He stopped abruptly. Stared down at the gun, as if only noticing it then for the first time. Turned the weapon over in his hands, running stubby fingers over the filigree metalwork.
‘Ottoman?’ he said, raising an eyebrow. He raised the flintlock to his shoulder and stared down the barrel at Sheila. Pulled the trigger. ‘Bang.’
Sheila winced.
Paddy winked.
‘Nice gun,’ he said. Then, he hit her over the head hard with the barrel.
‘I’ll be down in a tick,’ Paddy shouted to Conky McFadden, poking his head out from one of the doors on the galleried landing. Fastening the cuffs of his shirt. On his bottom half, he wore only his pants. Hairy, freckled red legs on show. ‘I’m just going for a shit.’
‘You take your time, boss …’ Conky said, peering down at the shine on his new shoes. ‘… While I hang around like a fart in a trance,’ he added, lowering his voice to a half-whisper. ‘Sure, I’ve got nothing better to do at eleven pm on a Friday night.’
Conky stood at the bottom of the stairs, hands folded behind him, sighing. Remembering how Paddy had stunk their cell out when they’d
