‘I expected you at some point, but I thought you would have the decency to come to my offices. After all, I didn’t bring my grievances to your front door, did I?’
No one said a word, and Josephine waited with baited breath, wondering what the next step would be. Michael was beside her now and, smiling pleasantly, he said gently, ‘Put the kettle on, darling. Make us all a cup of tea.’ Then he walked into his office, and the two men followed him, like lambs to the slaughter.
Chapter Fifty-Three
Michael closed the door to his office quietly. He gestured amiably to the two men to take a seat and when they were both settled comfortably – though looking thoroughly chastened at learning of his wife’s condition – he bellowed at them loudly, ‘How dare you! How dare you bring your fucking grievances into my home! My home, where my wife resides, and where I expect her to be safe and left in fucking peace. You dare to fucking come here like the avenging angels, and then expect me to swallow such outrageous fucking behaviour without retaliating?’
When Michael was really angry, he was formidable. He concealed his temper beneath the usual friendly countenance he showed to the world most of the time, whilst maintaining his reputation as a man whose temper, when roused, was without equal. He had nurtured this unpredictability over the years, ensuring that his reaction to any situation could never be guaranteed. That had stood him in great stead – it was the reason why these two men were unsure now of what he was actually capable of. Oh, he remembered the guilt he had felt over the Goldings’ death and the angst he had felt over his first kill. It had all been easier than he had ever believed. He had been given a baptism of fire all right – Patrick Costello had ensured that. But it had shown him how simple the kill actually was. Now his reputation was set – his reaction to any given situation, on the other hand, was something no one could ever foresee. It was why these men were suddenly so fucking subdued. He had not been even remotely bothered by their presence on his doorstep; they had assumed it would give them the edge – instead, it had given him the advantage. They had come to his home in anger without taking the time to think it all through. That alone was a fucking insult in itself.
Michael Flynn genuinely felt for Christie McCarthy. The man’s anguish was evident and he had every right to feel as he did. He had lost his son and that was a terrible thing for anyone to endure. But all that really mattered in their world was righting a wrong – that was the bottom line. Kelvin had pushed his fucking luck big time, he had taken a dirty great liberty, and he had been punished for it. That was it, as far as Michael was concerned, but he was willing to try to build a few bridges.
‘Look, Christie, I know how you’re feeling, mate, I respect that. But you know, as well as I do, that Kelvin was long overdue for a fucking hammering of some sort.’
Michael waited for a reply. He wanted to give this man a pass; he had no argument with him personally. But Christie’s silence was making it difficult. Well, fuck him! He needed a fucking lesson in etiquette.
‘Do you know what I really think? I think that you should have reined your boy in a long time ago. I mean, I couldn’t believe my fucking ears! He actually pulled a gun on Jeffrey Palmer, in my fucking club! In full view of the paying public, I might fucking add, disrespecting me and my premises.’ Michael was getting even more annoyed now at having to explain himself. ‘Do you honestly think that I should have swallowed my fucking knob? Done nothing? Your son baited that man for ages, he insulted him into the ground, and the only reason Jeffrey Palmer didn’t retaliate and kill the cunt there and then, was because he was on my premises. He knew if he entered into the fray – bearing in mind that he had every right to sort that lairy little cunt out – he would now be in the same condition as your boy: dead as a fucking doornail. I cannot, and will not, allow such behaviour on my premises. I don’t care who it is.’
Christie McCarthy knew that Michael had only done what he would have done himself in the same position. But this was still about his son. As useless as the boy had been, he was his own flesh and blood.
Michael was leaning on his desk, with his arms folded across his chest. He looked every inch the main man; he had something about him that told people he was not to be underestimated. Like Patrick Costello, he had an edge to him. McCarthy had dealt with dangerous men before – it was par for the course in the world they lived in – but, occasionally, the world threw up someone like Michael Flynn or Patrick Costello. They were few and far between, and the fact that they lived by such a completely different code was the reason they were so successful.