“When you get a bit of heat at all like the heat we’re after getting today,” he said, “the man below do be swimmin’ in his own melt.”

A laugh was let off that sounded like a chainsaw revving. The Dog had been receiving from the Mullaneys for two years and he paid an insulting tax but he was the only operator in the vicinity who was reliable in terms of cashflow. He led them through to the living room. Bottles of Rachmaninov vodka from Aldi were everywhere and apple juice cartons from the same place – apfelseft, they called it there. Patrick lay down the box of DVDs and found that his heart was beating much too fast.

“We can’t stay long, Dog,” he said.

“D’ya know I’d smoke a hunderd fags for you in a night if I was drinkin’?” said The Dog.

“DVDs for you, Dog?”

“DVDs comin’ out me bollix, Mull. I no more want DVDs than the fuckin’ wall.”

He eyed Tee-J.

“You’re gettin’ big,” he said.

He settled himself on the white plastic garden chair that was the only furniture in the place. He rubbed with the chipped black paint of his fingernails the inside of his thigh and he drank from the beaker.

“Would we say three-fifty, Doggie?”

“Don’t mind your fuckin’ shite-talk!”

His mood had switched instantly, as was the Mannion way, from playful to like he was going to murder you.

“Said don’t mind the auld talk, Mull! Come in here and look at me like scum? Ye want my money but the way ye look at me? Like I’m a piece of fuckin’ shit? All I’m to ye fellas is euro! Ye fuckin bitches! I open my door! I offer ye the full fuckin’ courtesy of my home! I …”

9

  

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