Michael accepted the glass of whisky from Declan, and took a large gulp. He was enjoying Kelvin’s fear. He needed to be made aware of his actions. ‘I mean, think about it from my point of view. You came into my club, and you then caused a big fucking scene. You even had the fucking audacity to pull a gun on a very good friend of mine. I mean, think about it logically, Kelvin. I can’t let this go, can I?’
Kelvin McCarthy was hurting everywhere. He was bound tightly, and he couldn’t move his arms at all. He was also tired out. He had the hangover from hell, and Michael Flynn was treating him like a fucking no one. He was threatening him, and Kelvin McCarthy felt that he should remind the man of who he was actually dealing with. He was scared, but he was also aware that his father would not allow anything to happen to him. His natural arrogance was coming to the fore. He was safe as the proverbial houses. Michael Flynn wasn’t going to really harm him – he wouldn’t dare. His dad had always stepped in and smoothed everything over. He had stepped over the line, and he would have to pay dearly when his dad learnt the whole story. But that was the point – his dad would ultimately be the one to punish him for his sins, no one else. That is how it had always been.
He sighed theatrically. He could feign abject contrition in his sleep; he had been doing it since he was fifteen and his dad had found out he was a thief. ‘Look, Mr Flynn, I admit it. I fucked up big time. It won’t happen again, believe me. I have learnt my lesson the hard way. But this is dragging on too long now, OK? My joints are screaming with pain, and I can’t feel my hands. I’ve been tied up like this for fucking hours. My dad will be wondering where I am. The people I was with last night will eventually have to tell him what happened – that’s if he hasn’t heard already, of course – but I will explain to him that it was all my fault. I swear to you both, on my mother’s life, that I will walk away from this without any malice towards you whatsoever.’
Michael Flynn listened to him intently, but he showed no reaction to his speech.
Declan walked from the room slowly and, once more, seated himself behind the big old desk that his brother had bought at an auction years before. He picked up the bottle of Glenfiddich and poured himself out another generous measure. He knocked it back quickly, and immediately poured himself out another large glass. The dawn was breaking. He could hear cars in the distance, the sound of people going to work, to jobs that paid the same wage week after week, year after fucking year. It was completely alien to him, that kind of life. But, as Patrick had always said, without people like them, Britain would be fucked. They were the people who kept the country going, who worked in the industries that made Britain great. They were the backbone of the country; without them and the work ethic they possessed, Patrick had always said Britain would die on its feet. There was a beautiful logic in there somewhere, a brutal truth that couldn’t be denied. He sighed heavily, and looked at Michael warily. He was still standing there, not even a movement or a word to indicate he had heard anything that Kelvin McCarthy had said.
Michael could see the confusion on Kelvin’s smug face. He had expected a reaction to his little speech. But Michael knew, deep in his heart, that he was never going to give this ponce a swerve. He looked at the man once more. He had everything a man could want. He was big, handsome, he had a fuck-off head of hair, and a father who would have gladly given him the earth on a plate. But he viewed his own father as nothing more than a fucking weapon, used him as a guarantee so he would never have to pay for his mistakes personally. That a man like Christie McCarthy could produce such a fucking weak-willed, avaricious, lazy, vicious, useless ponce like this was beyond Michael’s ken. He would rather be childless than have to own up to fathering someone as heinous as Kelvin McCarthy. Even now, the man thought his name could excuse everything he had done. Michael was so disgusted, and so ashamed for Christie McCarthy, a truly great man. To know that he had produced such a fucking ingrate must be the worst thing a man could experience.
Michael went into the office where Declan was sitting quietly and, pulling out an old chair from the back of the room, he sat opposite him, and held out his empty glass. Declan filled it for him, and they both smiled suddenly.
‘Patrick would never have sat there like you. He just couldn’t have done that, Michael, you know? He had to be in the position of power always. This is the first time I have ever sat behind this desk! What does that say about me?’
Michael laughed. ‘I know that better than anyone, believe me. It wasn’t deliberate, Declan. It was just his nature. He had worked hard for his position in life, and it meant a lot to him.’
Declan could see the truth of that, and he was amazed that Michael had understood his brother so well, and what made him tick. ‘You’re right. Patrick always wanted more. Nothing would ever be enough for him. Like you!’
‘I suppose so.’
Michael got up and, walking to the main door, he picked up a crowbar that was always there in case of emergencies.