‘I never thought of that, young Michael! I better get around the local pubs, have a look at the strange on offer. Now, where is that lovely little girl of yours?’
Michael was pleased at the compliment; she was a real looker was his Josephine. She was a cut above the usual girls and he knew that.
Before he could answer, the door to the office opened wide and Patrick Costello made a grand entrance.
‘Hello, boys, how’d you like my new house then?’ Patrick looked expectantly from Michael Flynn to his brother.
Michael was about to speak when Declan broke in furiously with, ‘You had to do it, didn’t you, Pat, eh? I asked you not to and you still did it.’ Declan suddenly looked fit to be tied.
Patrick Costello didn’t reply.
Michael just stood there, unable to say a word. He didn’t know what it was about anyway. It was the first time he had ever seen Declan so angry, and it seemed that Patrick sensed that as well. This outburst had come out of nowhere.
‘The whole Golding family are dead, burnt to death in their beds. Except for the son – it seems he was staying overnight at his mate’s. Two little girls died though. Twelve and fourteen. How must you feel, Patrick? All that mayhem for five hundred quid.’
Michael Flynn felt physically ill.
‘It wasn’t anything to do with me, Declan. I can only assume the man owed other people money. Let’s face it, he was a fucking ponce.’
Declan laughed at his brother’s arrogance. ‘Who the fuck do you think you are, Patrick, eh? Well, remember, things like this have a nasty habit of coming back on you. It’s called karma. And no matter what you say, how much you might deny it, I know this was your handiwork.’
He stormed out of the room.
Michael Flynn looked at Patrick Costello. Michael was white-faced, ashen, knowing that he had been the one who had caused such carnage.
Patrick shrugged. ‘Hard lines, son. Typical fucking Golding, though, lying about his whereabouts as usual.’
Patrick could see the terror on the lad’s face and, pouring him a large brandy, he gave it to him, saying, ‘Get that down you, son. You’re in shock. But no one knows the truth except us. These things happen occasionally. Shit happens.’
Michael gulped down his brandy.
‘The man lied to me, Michael. He said they were all going away for a few days.’ He sighed heavily. ‘What’s done is done, son. Just make sure we keep it close to our chests, OK?’
Michael nodded. He didn’t know what else to do.
‘I have explained the downside of the business to you, and now you are finding it out for yourself. Take my advice, son: if you want to get on in this game, you need to learn how to tune out the shit you don’t need. It’s a fucking tragedy, but if Golding hadn’t been such a lying cunt, none of this would have happened.’
Michael was nodding, desperate to believe what the man was saying.
Patrick looked into Michael’s eyes, and he said warily, ‘If this is all too much for you, tell me now. We can part company, and no hard feelings. But I need to know I can count on you, Michael.’
Michael Flynn wasn’t going to lose this opportunity; it was what he had dreamt of all his life. ‘You can count on me, Patrick.’
The man grinned. ‘I had a feeling you were going to say that!’
Michael Flynn knew then and there that he had burnt his boats. He had come into this business with his eyes open, and he had always known that people were sometimes murdered. It could happen to any of them, for a host of reasons. Just like the big prison sentence was always going to be there, hanging over his head. It was the chance you took if you chose the Life. He couldn’t let an accident, a fucking misunderstanding, cloud the rest of his life. He would put it out of his mind, force it from his psyche. After all, he had only done what Patrick Costello had asked of him – that was what he was being paid to do, and that was what he wanted to do with his life. He had made his choice.
Chapter Four
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake, Mum, it’s just a telephone. Anyone would think we were living in the Middle Ages the way you carry on. I had to get a phone put in for work, OK? But you are more than welcome to use it if you want.’
Hannah Flynn could hear the underlying annoyance in her son’s voice. In the three months since he had started working for Patrick Costello he had changed drastically.
‘And who would I be calling on the telephone, I ask you?’
Her voice held a questioning note that irritated her son all the more. Anyone would think she had never seen or heard of a telephone in her life. It had never occurred to him until now how few friends his mother actually had. She was only forty-one; anyone would think she was in her dotage the way she carried on.