his side, Paddy had thunder behind his eyes.
‘Twat!’ He cuffed Frank on the side of his head.
Frank was ashen-faced. ‘What’s up, Pad? How comes Roy Orbison here has got a grip of me? I babysat your supplier, didn’t I? I wanna go and vibe with me adoring public, now. Know what I mean?’ Frank toyed with the sleeves of his top.
‘Who’ve you got dealing tonight?’ his older brother asked, gesticulating towards the dancefloor, visible beyond Jack in his booth.
Frank shrugged, still twitching as though he had withdrawals from the dancefloor. ‘Business as usual, man. You know? The Parson’s Croft kids. Degsy and his girls. Nicky, Maggie. They’re flogging Hong Kong Colin’s latest batch of E and meth, like you told them. Dealing some super-fine super skunk. Few baggies of coke. Making the happiness and contentment go round, man.’ He drew a heart in the air, ending with both hands making the peace sign.
But Paddy looked anything but peaceful and content. He smashed his whisky tumbler on the floor. Grabbed his younger brother by the back of the neck like a mother cat taking its wayward kitten in its maw. Pushed his face towards the crowd. ‘It’s crawling with Boddlingtons, you dozy wanker.’ Slapped him on the back of his sweaty head with a freckled, hairy hand.
Narrowing his eyes, Conky refocused on the sea of faces. The boy with the lightning flash was palming tabs in a baggie onto some girl and pocketing cash. That much, he could see. Very shoddy procedure.
Frank opened and closed his mouth. Rolling his head, as though panning for an explanation in his empty druggy head like a prospector hoping to find an elusive gold nugget in the mud.
‘I don’t know how he got past the fellers on the door, Pad. Honest. Maybe someone let him in the back. Maybe he just slipped through with a group of people. There’s two thousand kids in here. I can’t keep tabs on them. Know what I mean?’
Turning to Conky, Paddy’s thin lips arced downwards into a scowl.
‘Find Degsy. And get that little Boddlington shit back here. I’m not having stray dogs pissing on my territory.’ Hunched shoulders beneath the suit said he was bristling with anger.
‘Well, strictly speaking, Pad, it’s my territory,’ Frank said, wide-eyed. ‘As long as people are having a good time, I’m not bothered, me.’
‘Fucking dickhead.’
The slap that Paddy gave him across his face clearly had some weight behind it. Frank rubbed his cheek, suddenly looking like a small boy. Conky knew better than to intervene.
‘Get that Boddlington arsehole and Degsy back here,’ Paddy said.
Amidst a flurry of disingenuous apologies, Conky returned with Degsy and the Boddlington interloper, kicking them at the heels to make them move forwards with his gun trained on their backs. Taking pride in the fear he instilled in Degsy, at least. He was the O’Brien firm’s Loss Adjuster. He had a reputation to uphold. All who came before him in the Conky McFadden court of justice quaked in their boots.
‘This is Leviticus Bell,’ he announced, pushing the Boddlington low-level dealer to his knees. Not Deuteronomy, but still a biblical-standard cheeky arsehole. ‘And our very own lovely Derek.’ He poked Degsy in the back with the barrel of his gun.
Paddy cracked his knuckles. Took something shining from his breast pocket and slid it onto his hand. A knuckle duster. Degsy, a tall bundle of oversized G-Star Raw and Diesel with spots around his mouth that said he smoked just as much meth as he sold, paled instantly.
‘On your knees, you lanky twat!’ Paddy said, breathing heavily through his nostrils.
Degsy’s Adam’s apple bounced up and down in his scrawny neck.
‘Sorry, Mr O’Brien. I don’t know why I’m here, like, but whatever it is, I’m sorry. I told Mr McFadden.’
The left hook that Paddy delivered to Degsy’s temple sent the dealer’s head spinning to the right with a crack. Blood spatters clinging in a jaunty red to the black nightclub walls.
‘Christ, Pad. There’s no need for that,’ Frank said, wincing.
‘Shut your trap, Frank. I don’t give a stuff if Queen Elizabeth’s name’s on the liquor licence above the door. I’m the boss here. Me.’ He dug into his chest with a stubby thumb.
Paddy dragged Degsy to his feet. Though he towered above even Conky, Degsy seemed small next to the King. ‘You want to work for me and stay alive, Derek, you keep Boddlington scum out of my venues, right?’
Degsy nodded contritely. Seemed a little dazed. Touched the blood on the side of his head that now seeped onto his clothing.
‘Yes, Mr O’Brien. Sorry. It won’t happen again.’
Struggling against Conky’s grip, the young mixed-race Boddlington interloper spat at Degsy.
‘Parson’s Croft piece of shit!’ he shouted at him. Turned to Paddy and Frank. ‘I’m not bleeding scared of yous, man.’
Conky cuffed his ear with his pistol. ‘You’d better be, you wee shite. I’m gonna enjoy putting a bullet in you.’ His practised words came out automatically as he dwelled all the while on his missed book club and the strangeness of Sheila’s behaviour. Decades of doing the same job could do that to a man.
The boy turned to Conky, frowning. ‘Oh yeah? You want the Fish Man to come and fillet you, old man? ’Cause that’s who you’re dealing with if you lay a frigging finger on me.’
‘What’s your name again, son?’ Paddy stepped closer and grabbed him by his chin. Pushed his face upwards, examining his delicate bone structure to see if nobility was hidden in his genes.
The boy spat a second time on the floor at Paddy’s side. ‘Leviticus Bell.’
‘Plucky little bastard, aren’t you?’
The boy somehow wriggled free of Conky’s grip. Lunged at Paddy. A flash of something metallic, under the dim backstage lights. Red, spreading quickly through the suit-fabric covering Paddy’s forearm. The boy, running away; sprinting like a hunted gazelle through the emergency exit.
‘Boss!’ Conky shouted. He pushed his glasses onto his forehead to get a better look at the wound. His breath coming ragged with an accelerated heartbeat as he stared down at the gash.
‘It’s just a scratch!’ Paddy said, pressing his fingers into the wound.
But then, something more sinister, as Paddy’s look of surprise and anger turned into a wide-eyed hundred-yard stare. Clutching at his chest, he began sinking to his knees.
‘Jesus. I feel—’ he said. Grimacing, then, his eyes clamped shut.
‘Call an ambulance!’ Conky barked at Frank.
As Frank punched 999 into his phone, he seemed to be watching with part-glee, part-dread as his brother slumped to the floor, unconscious.
