official asks as he examines Serge Mercier’s passport.
‘To see if your golf courses are as good as they say they are, Monsieur. Are they?’
‘Oh, certainly,’ the customs official says, handing Serge back his passport. ‘Where do you hope to play?’
‘My friend tells me, er … Port … Portmarnook?’
‘Portmarnock, sir.’
‘Portmarnook—’
‘No, sir, Portmarn … ock.’
‘Portmarn … ock.’
‘That’s it.’
‘Pardonnez-moi.’
‘That’s okay, sir. It’s a fabulous course. You’ll enjoy it. The fourteenth and fifteenth holes are amongst the best in the world.’
‘How nice.’
‘Enjoy your visit, sir.’
FIVE
Ructions and Panzer sit in the hot-food section of a service station on the Belfast–Dublin motorway, their heads almost touching. Panzer kicks Ructions under the table as he looks over Ructions’ shoulder.
‘Who is it?’ Ructions asks.
‘Tiny Murdoch, Colm Coleman and two heavies.’
‘What are they doing?’
‘For fuck sake,’ Panzer says, ‘they’ve seen us. They’re coming down.’
Robert ‘Tiny’ Murdoch is six feet six inches tall and has the build of a professional wrestler. He is also a member of the Provisional IRA’s general headquarters staff. With the signing of the Good Friday Agreement in 1998, the IRA has disavowed armed struggle as a means of achieving its aim of uniting Ireland. This convinces some political commentators that the Provisional IRA has been neutered, but Ructions, Panzer and the criminal underclass know differently.
Murdoch sits down next to Panzer, while Coleman slips in beside Ructions. The two heavies take seats at a nearby table.
A middle-aged lady, with tied-back greying hair and glasses, enters the eating area and slides into a seat several tables away from the heavies. She opens her handbag and takes out her purse, but not before she presses a button which activates a pinhead surveillance camera in the side of her handbag.
‘What about youse, lads?’ Tiny Murdoch says, as his huge JCB fingers scoop up some of Panzer’s fries.
‘Sound, Tiny,’ Panzer says, looking relaxed. ‘Help yourself to those fries, why don’t you? I hear they’re very good.’
‘That’s very civilised of you, Panzer,’ Murdoch replies as he gathers up the rest of the fries before pulling Panzer’s tray towards him. ‘Jesus, Panzer, you haven’t half lost the weight.’
‘I’m cutting down on the fast food, Tiny,’ Panzer says.
Murdoch guffaws. ‘A good idea.’
When Colm Coleman reaches towards Ructions’ fries, Ructions’ lean hand and long fingers grab his wrist. Coleman tries to pull away, but Ructions’ grip is too strong.
‘I told you, Colm, didn’t I?’ Murdoch says. ‘Look at him. A fuckin’ Rottweiler. He’d put a bullet in the back of your head for a main course and one in mine for dessert.’
Ructions releases Coleman’s wrist. ‘Be my guest,’ he says, gesturing with his hand.
‘Be your guest?’ Coleman says insolently, rubbing his wrist. ‘You’ll be lucky if you don’t end up being my guest.’
Words from the grave echo in Ructions’ brain, advice from The Devil: Never let your enemies see your anger.
Barely able to speak after shoving Panzer’s cheeseburger into his mouth, Murdoch mumbles, ‘Have youse any moves on?’
‘Nah,’ Panzer replies. ‘I’m telling you, Tiny, I’ve never seen it so tight. Have you ever seen it this tight?’
Murdoch finishes off Panzer’s cheeseburger and wipes his mouth with a paper serviette. ‘I enjoyed that.’ He belches. ‘What was that?’
‘I said, there’s nothing on.’
‘It’s hard to get a turn these days, I’ll give you that. Hard times, Colm.’
‘Desperate times, Tiny.’ Coleman looks at Ructions’ cheeseburger and then at Murdoch. ‘Would you recommend that?’
‘Ten out of ten.’
‘What about you, Ructions? Would you recommend it?’
‘I hear they do a good cheeseburger here.’
Coleman laughs heartily. The infection spreads to Murdoch, Panzer and Ructions. ‘That was funny,’ Coleman says. ‘Wasn’t that funny, Tiny?’
‘He’s a funny guy is our Ructions – a regular Charlie Chaplin,’ Murdoch says.
The hilarity subsides. Coleman lifts Ructions’ cheeseburger and takes a bite. Unlike Murdoch, Coleman chews slowly. ‘Oh, boy, this is juicy.’ He holds Ructions’ cheeseburger up to Murdoch. ‘We should get into this, Tiny. This is exceptional.’
Murdoch stabs his finger into Ructions’ chest. ‘This boyo’s a hard bastard to kill. Three times we went for him.’
‘Why’s he still breathing, then?’ Coleman asks.
‘Because he cleared his slate.’
‘How? What did he do?’
‘It was during the ceasefire. Talks were at a …’ Murdoch waves his hand, ‘delicate stage and we had to hold back. So the bullet-dodger here clipped a bad boy for us.’
Ructions looks out the window. Murdoch puts his hand on the top of Ructions’ head and turns his face around. ‘I said … you’re a goddam killer.’
Ructions yawns, making no attempt to disguise his irritation.
‘Goddam killer in motorway services,’ Murdoch says loudly, pointing to Ructions. ‘Read all about it.’
‘So, Ructions,’ Coleman says, ‘what’s on the pot? What are you and old Panzer cooking up?’
Colm, if I’d the governor of the Bank of England in the trunk of my car, you’d be the last person on earth to hear about it. Ructions shrugs and waves his hands in resignation.
Murdoch studies Panzer’s face. ‘Would you tell me if you’d a job on, Panzer? I don’t think you would.’
Panzer knows that if he says he would let Murdoch know of any move, it would be a blatant lie, so he opts for the truth. ‘You’re right, I wouldn’t. Why should I, Tiny? So you could take the food off my plate?’
‘I wouldn’t do that.’
Panzer looks at his empty plate and grins. ‘Of course you wouldn’t.’
Murdoch whispers in Panzer’s ear, ‘You don’t begrudge me a burger, do you?’
‘Of course not.’
‘I fuckin’ hope not. Now, you can deny it all you want, but I know you two pulled off that million quid cigarette move at Balcoo in January—’
‘Ahh, Jesus, Tiny!’ Panzer exclaims. ‘Now that’s out of order. You boys did that.’
‘Em, I don’t think so. We got the blame for it – as we always do – but you and the bullet-dodger here,’ Panzer nods to Ructions, ‘did it.’
‘You’re up the left on that one, Tiny.’
Murdoch takes the plastic top off Panzer’s Coke, puts the cup