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  Once he'd quieted down a bit, I told him: "My old man was a guard."

  And as much as I hated that bastard, I hated this bastard more. A thick roll of cash wouldn't keep this one safe from me. That was a lie his type had been telling themselves ever since the Celtic Tiger first pawed up gold, long before they declawed the beast and sucked it dry like the ticks they were.

  Of course, the ticks had the law on their side. Glen lodged a complaint, I got the early morning knock-up from the blues. From there it was a short trip to the judge with shocking winter plumage and skin like a flapjack.

  My brief had told me, "Don't – now listen to me, Sean – do not give this one cheek. He's a vindictive bastard, God love him, and he hears even a tone out of you, he'll drop you like you're hot."

  "I have no idea what you're saying. Is that Connemara 'hood talk?"

  "It's sound legal advice."

  So I took it. In the end, I got called a "thundering disgrace" and was bound over for two years which, given the circumstances, was about the length of a Ramones song. I was a good boy for twenty-four months, stayed as legit as I could and hooked up with Nora, let her take care of the other side.

  Thinking back now, maybe I should've taken some of the work on myself. I dropped my guard, she got right in there. And that wasn't going to end well for anyone, because pretty soon she'd be down and I'd have blood on my hands.

  At the very least.

  COBB

  Couldn't look at McDonalds since they started doing salads, so I went cruising round the airport looking for a Burger King. By the time I found one, there was fuckin' angels singing, I was that starved. I had a Smoked Bacon and Cheddar Double Angus. Chips. Onion rings. Wash it all down with a big thing of Diet Coke.

  It was the whisky did it to us. Normally I would've kept drinking until I passed out, but I had to be a bit more sober if I was going to drive Farrell all over the shop, so that meant getting some good, solid scran down my neck. Mind, the price at Burger King was a bad fuckin' joke. When the fat lass at the counter told us, I thought I'd bust an eardrum.

  "I'm not looking to buy a franchise, love."

  "You what?"

  "I'm just hungry."

  She stared at us, mouth open. "Eh?"

  There was no arguing with her – she was a fuckin' wall. I had to fork out or else my guts would digest themselves. I hoped Farrell brought some cash over, or at least cut us in on the twenty large he was hunting.

  I grabbed my tray, went over to the corner and got stuck in. Three bites into the Triple Whopper, I checked the time. Farrell's plane was due in soon. I chewed a bit slower, mind, because I got to thinking how fuckin' weird it was to be thinking about Farrell and then talking to him and then him coming over, all in one morning.

  Must've been, what, five years? Just after he got respectable and moved in with that lass, the one I reckoned must've been Nora. The love of his life. She'd been the one to get him straight, and it came at a cost. She was a pure nag – fuckin' wash the dishes, take out the bins, don't do nowt until you'd run it past her first. If this was the same one that'd done a runner, it was good fuckin' riddance as far as I was concerned, because I never liked her since day one. Fuckin' hippie. I didn't see the match, reckoned Farrell must've lost his marbles.

  So I asked him that last time I saw him, like. "What the fuck is going on here?"

  "Eh?"

  "With the missus."

  Farrell smiled, tapped the side of his nose. He used to do that a lot. It pissed us off no end.

  "Don't you worry about her," he said. "She's alright."

  "You got something on, like?"

  He nodded. Back then, we were partners or as good as, so I'm not going to lie and say I was alright with it, because I fuckin' wasn't.

  "And what the fuck am I?" I said.

  "You're a mate, Jimmy."

  "I'm a brassic mate."

  "I know, but I can't get you involved in this. It needs something else. Discretion."

  "How, I'm discreet."

  "But your accent doesn't fit."

  "Fuck's the matter with my accent?"

  "It's not Irish enough." Farrell shrugged. "What can I tell you, it's an Irish thing. You need cash, though ..."

  "I need a job."

  "How about a drink and a sub?"

  "How about a fuck and an off?"

  Because I knew what was happening, I knew the way it would end – the woman would win out, because she had him by the balls. Everything else, the years in the Army together, the scams we pulled, all that went out the fuckin' window. And so we ended up settled in with a sea between us, and neither of us happy.

  Except now he was coming back, wasn't he?

  I finished my scran, pushed back the tray and slapped my gut until I let loose a table-shaking burp. Reached into my pocket for the menthols, sparked one up. As soon as the smoke cleared from the first drag, I saw this fat bastard staring at us. Oldish like me, face like a balloon, six hairs on his head, not one of them pointing in the same direction.

  "What?" I said.

  "I came here to eat, not smoke."

  "I wasn't offering."

  Behind the fat bastard was the fat bastard's fat bairn, face already puckered like an old man's arse, flab pushing his lips into a permanent pout. Fat Bairn would've made an excellent advert for keeping it in your Y-fronts, and I would've said something to that effect, but we'd just got introduced, like.

  I took another drag off of the menthol. "Problem, like?"

  "You're smoking."

  "I know."

  "So put it out."

  "Fuck off."

  "What's that?" Cocking his head, eyes slitting. Like he was going to do something. Like fuck, he was.

  "It's a free country," I said.

  Some red got into his face. He said, "You're jeopardising the life of my child and you're ruining our lunch. So put it out before I call the police."

  I looked at the bairn, then back at the bloke. Taking my time, because I didn't really want to kick off in Burger King – it was fuckin' unseemly. Then again, this ponce was itching to feel the furry side, and I had a hand hairy enough to fit the fuckin' bill.

  Decisions, decisions.

  "Alright, I'll tell you what," I said. "I'll do you a deal."

  "What?"

  "I'll put out this tab if you stop being so fuckin' fat."

  The bloke didn't say anything. His mouth was open, mind. The red in his face went redder.

  "Because I'll tell you," I said, "you might not like having smoke wafting round you when you're trying to eat your burgers and all the rest of it, but I really hate having to sit and look at you and your fat fuckin' bairn when I'm trying to digest. Now I'm not being funny or nowt, but even you've got to admit, you two aren't very pretty when you're eating, are you? If I'm honest – and don't take this the wrong way – it's like watching pigs. Seriously. So how's about you and your bairn there lose about two-thirds of your body weight and then maybe you can come back and talk to us about how I'm jeopardising your fuckin' health, eh?"

  I held the tab up, blew smoke in his general direction. My free hand went to the sock pocket. If this chunky twat fancied a square, I'd be more than happy to oblige him with some Duracells round the napper.

  He had to start it, though. I wasn't a thug.

  The fat bastard stepped forward. I pushed my chair back.

  "Howeh," I said.

  The fat bastard stopped. Looked at my hand, the one that had a good grip on the sock in my pocket.

  "Watch yourself. State of you, you might have a heart attack."

  "Apologise to my son."

  "Don't be fuckin' ignorant."

  "I'm calling the police." He pulled out his mobile. "I'm calling the police right now."

  Aye, they always bring up the polis, don't they? Always trying to ruin the fun.

  "And there was me thinking fat people were supposed to be jolly." I put the tab in my mouth, approached the fat bastard. He backed up a step, but st
ill looked like he'd start swinging if I made any sudden moves. He held the mobile up like it would ward us off. I pushed past him out the door. Heard the bairn ask him a question. Heard him answer with a swear word.

  I made it down to arrivals in time to see people filing out the main doors. Checked my watch, then the board, reckoned it must've been Farrell's flight, so I hung around. A heavy-looking businessman with a bright red nose and grey hair plastered to his head. A couple of teenagers, hands in each other's back pockets, made us want to spew my hoop. There was a woman, dressed nice enough, talking to herself, looked pure mental. Took us until she passed for us to realise she was on one of them hands-free things.

  Jesus, living in the future, eh? Where's my fuckin' jetpack?

  I watched her scurry out and get in the back of one of them Airport Cabs, the fuckin' pirates. Turned back to see Farrell coming out the doors.

  He'd lost weight, gone to sinew, which was probably down to the ex-girlfriend keeping him from everything he liked. Otherwise he was the same. Still had that stupid fuckin' beard, still had them daft Achtung Baby shades, still walking like he was supposed to be somewhere an hour ago.

  Soon as he saw us, he came over. Head bag in one hand, sneer on his face as he looked us up and down. He stopped in front of us, removed his sunglasses to reveal blood-webbed eyes. I guessed hangover more than tears. Farrell might've been emotional, but he wasn't the crying type.

  "You got fat," he said.

  "It's all muscle, this."

  "I need a gun, Jimmy."

  "Bit short notice, like."

  "Left mine behind. I had to." Farrell looked behind us, glanced around the airport like he was careful of being watched. He put the sunglasses back on. "So I need a new one."

  "Alright, well, we'll get you settling in first." I pointed at the door behind us with me thumb. "Got the car outside, I'll take you—"

  "No, Jimmy. I'm telling you, I need a gun. Now."

  And he marched right past us before I got a chance to answer.

  FARRELL

  Cobb's Volvo. It had aged like Melanie Griffith, cheap cosmetic work heavily in evidence, then left to rot when Cobb realised there was more to be done than a simple patch up. Miracle it was still running, but not totally unexpected. I'd hoped for more, but knew Cobb wouldn't have gone anywhere but down. The kind of man who needed someone to tell him what to do. Without me, there was no way he was going to get his act together.

  And that had to happen quick-smart. No more fucking around from Cobb.

  "All I'm saying is, you want to get settled first—"

  "Jimmy, listen to me, I'm not going to relax until I'm armed. So take me to your dealer."

  "Fuck's sake." Cobb got into the car, leaned over and unlocked the passenger door. I opened it. "All I'm saying—"

  "I know." I brushed the Greggs bags from the passenger seat, got in. The door wouldn't shut properly unless I slammed it, so I did.

  "It's Newcastle. It's difficult. This is not a city we walk around fuckin' strapped, know what I mean?"

  "You said you knew a guy."

  "Aye, knew."

  "Dead?"

  "Alive, but I don't know, marra. He's skittish." Cobb tapped the side of his head. "Not just gun-daft. Pure fucked in the napper. You get talking to him long enough, you'll see he's in the dark place, man."

  "You serious?"

  Cobb started the engine. Checked his mirrors, even though the roads were clear, looked like he was conscious of spies. "He's ex-forces, right?"

  "Right."

  "So he didn't handle it well."

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "Means he's tapped, I already telt you. Times I've talked to him, you can see it in his fuckin' eyes, he's back in the Malvinas."

  "Falklands was a long time ago, Jimmy."

  "He saw heavy action."

  "Which is why he's a basket. Right."

  "Wait till you meet him."

  "We going there now?"

  "No. We're going back to mine."

  "I told you—"

  Cobb held up a hand. "I've got to play it right, don't I? Got to phone him first, otherwise we won't get anywhere near."

  I dug out my mobile. "Then call him."

  Cobb glanced at the phone, shook his head.

  "Why not?"

  "He's got Caller ID."

  "So?"

  "So he's not going to pick it up if he doesn't know who the fuck it is, is he? Jesus, man, it's not like it's going to take that much more fuckin' time. Just let us call him from the flat, will you?"

  I dropped the phone back in my pocket. Made to turn on the radio, but there was a slot in the dash where it should have been. Instead, Cobb had a CD player plugged into the cigarette lighter.

  I pressed play. Cobb looked like he was going to say something, but he was interrupted by the sound of some brassy woman singing "Stormy Weather".

  Took a couple of seconds to recognise the voice. When I did, I pulled out a Silk Cut Ultra, lit it, and tried not to laugh too much through the smoke.

  "Is this Judy Garland, Jimmy?"

  A beat. Then: "Aye."

  "Is there something you want to tell me?"

  "No."

  "A lot can happen in five years."

  "Fuck you talking about?"

  "You know I'm still straight, right?"

  "You what?"

  "Hey, there's nothing wrong with it, Jimmy. It's a lifestyle choice—"

  "Fuckin' hetero's not allowed to like Judy Garland now, is that it?"

  "I'm not saying that."

  "You're a fine one to talk with your Silk Cut fuckin' Ultra, pal."

  I looked at the cigarette. "That was Nora."

  "Aye, I bet it was. Listen, tell you what, here's one you'll like." Cobb skipped through some tracks. Judy started singing about waking up one morning and hearing a joyful song. Started going on about March 17th being a great day for the Irish.

  I listened for a full minute. Then, just as Judy went all blarney on us, I rolled down the side window, took out the disc and spun it out onto the road.

  "The fuck d'you do that for?" said Cobb.

  "It's racist."

  "Judy Garland is not a fuckin' racist."

  "She said begorrah."

  "It's just a fuckin' song."

  "You ever been to Dublin?"

  "No."

  "Everyone's wearing Claddagh rings – Jesus, some of them have 'em tattooed on their fingers to go with the Celtic bands on their fucking arms. Can't move for the begorrah and bejappers, got fucking Yanks everywhere looking for their ancestors in the bogs. It's a green and ginger theme park, Jimmy. A fucking Lucky Charms commercial."

  "So?"

  "So I get enough of it over there, I don't need it here, too."

  Cobb was quiet for a moment. Then he sniffed. He said, "I'm not a racist."

  "I know. You're just misguided."

  "Get fucked."

  "Then Judy's misguided."

  "She's misunderstood," said Cobb. "Mental bitch just needed a bit of love."

  And with that, Cobb pulled into a car park and killed the engine.

  "We here?" I said.

  Cobb got out of the car. I grabbed my bag and joined him. Cobb walked fast with his head down, heading for a tower block that seemed to have more board in the windows than glass. If I thought the piss smell on the twelve flights of stairs was bad, it was nothing compared to the slap in the face I got the second we walked into Cobb's flat.

  "Jesus, Jimmy."

  "What?"

  "What'd you kill in here, and is it not about time you buried it?"

  Cobb sauntered into the hall, either oblivious or used to it by now. I followed, sniffing all the time, trying to place the source. Probably the bathroom, one of Cobb's floaters left to grow a fur coat. Cobb grabbed my bag off me, chucked it onto the couch.

  "You'll be alright with the settee?" he said.

  "That's grand."

  "Drink?"

  "A
nything other than the Rotgut?"

  Cobb went through to the kitchen. I heard him opening and closing doors. "I got some stubbies."

  "That'll do."

  There were books everywhere, stacked on loose shelves in the corner, half-open and littering the floor like dead birds. A couple of wooden chairs that looked as if they'd been purloined from the same back yard where Cobb had found the couch. Down by one side lay a mess of free weights. Over on the other side of the room, a cheap Alba stereo, stacks of CDs next to it, half of them out of their cases. A bachelor pad for the terminally lonely.

  "How you been getting on, Jimmy?"

  "Eh?"

  Cobb reappeared with a couple of stubbies. A cheap own-brand Belgian piss-lager, but better than whatever spirits he had in. Cobb always had been a quantity over quality man.

  "I said, how you been getting on."

  "Not bad." Cobb dropped to the couch, rested his free hand on top of my bag. "Nowt fantastical, but I do okay. I get by."

  "Still robbing from charity shops?"

  Cobb didn't say anything. He didn't need to. I picked up one of the books, had a woman with big blonde hair, wearing sunglasses. She had a wedge of cash and a peace medallion in one hand, in the other a gun. Hardly John Banville.

  "Good one, that," said Cobb. "Got the rest of the series around here somewhere."

  I dropped the book on the arm of the chair. "You're doing okay, then."

  "Aye."

  I nodded. "Been in trouble?"

  Cobb smiled. "When?"

  "Recently."

  "How recently?"

  "Fuck's sake, Jimmy, recently. Six months, say."

  "Why?"

  I took a swig from the stubbie. "Just thinking something through. Your nose clean?"

  "Never convicted."

  "Any interest from the blues, though? Sniffers?"

  "No."

  "Anyone else? Any debts running I should know about?"

  "I know better than that."

  "Just, you said you were brassic—"

  He said it again, harder: "I know better than that."

  "Okay."

  "Something you should know, all the time you was shacked up with your tart, I was living the quiet life." Cobb made a show of stretching his legs, made a groaning noise to go with it. "All I've been doing is sitting on this settee and drinking and smoking and reading and listening to me tunes. I get me giro every fortnight and Social have taken the fuckin' hint to stop nagging us about permanent employment. Everything's peachy as fuck."