over towards the pull-up bar. Billy, the pocket-sized champion weightlifter, opens his bottle of water and puts it to his lips.
Ructions – forty-five years old, blond hair, full lips, thin Roman nose and athletic build – lies on the bench, breathes deeply and prepares to start his set of bench-curls with the dumbbells. After only five bench-curls, Billy’s upside-down face appears above him.
‘One hundred and fifty large? Before the move? That’s what you said. You’re going to give me—’
Ructions sets down the dumbbells, sits up and wags his finger. ‘Ah, ah, ha, Billy.’
‘Let me get this right …’
‘Uh-huh?’
‘You’re going to give me one hundred and fifty—’
‘I’m not giving you anything, Billy.’
‘Now,’ Billy says, ‘your client—’
‘Uh-huh?’
‘Who we both know well—’
‘We know a lot of people well, and any of them could be the person to whom you are referring.’
Billy ignores Ructions’ provocations. ‘Let’s call this person to whom I am referring Robin Hood.’
Ructions feigns surprise. ‘You’ve guessed my client’s name.’
‘So, Robin Hood is going to give me …’ Billy looks about, making sure he will not be overheard, ‘one hundred and fifty thousand pounds before the job is done?’
‘Yes.’
Billy’s foxy eyes try to read Ructions’ face. ‘Nice bait.’
Ructions does not disguise his ire. ‘Nice bait? Nice fucking bait? Are you serious?’
‘There’s a catch,’ Billy says, pointing to Ructions’ chest. ‘C’mon, amigo. This is your best mate you’re talking to. What is it?’
Ructions puts his arms on Billy’s shoulder. ‘You and me – we joined the Immaculata Boxing Club together, didn’t we?’
‘We sure did.’
‘And I taught you how to swim in the Falls Baths, didn’t I?’
‘No,’ Billy says. ‘I taught you.’
Ructions is reminded that Billy will be a controversialist to the day he dies. ‘Take my word for it, Bill, there is no catch. Once the money is in your hands, it’s yours. So, if the move goes ahead, you get paid the big bucks. If, at the last minute, it gets called off, you still get paid the big bucks. If your boys get knocked off by the cops, they eventually come out of the nick to the big bucks.’
Billy strokes his black moustache. ‘I see.’
‘And remember this – you’re the boss man. You pay your employees what you think they’re worth.’ Gone is the frivolity as Ructions whispers in Billy’s ear. ‘Billy, believe me, it doesn’t get much better than this.’
‘Robin’s no philanthropist.’
‘I never said he was.’
‘So, for him to claw back his money – and get the wages he’s used to – this thing has to work.’
‘Bingo.’
‘Ructions O’Hare,’ Billy says, beaming, ‘you must be one hundred and ten per cent.’
‘Aren’t I always?’
‘I’m in. You knew that anyway. You knew that before you came to me.’ Billy inspects his biceps in the mirror and sings, ‘I am the one and only …’ He falls silent for a few seconds and then turns to Ructions. ‘You fellas must be expecting a heavy haul.’
‘I’m an optimist, Billy. I always expect a good result.’ Ructions had anticipated that Billy’s greed would kick in sooner or later, and he is not disappointed.
‘Can we say two hundred, Ructions? Our pal, Robin, he can do that, can’t he?’
‘No.’
‘That’s it?’
‘That’s it.’
Billy nods. ‘Be thankful for small mercies, eh?’
‘Small mercies can be plenty costly.’
‘Yeah. Well, as I say, I’m in.’ Billy lifts his towel to go, and then stops. ‘Oh, I forgot to ask – how many players do I need?’
‘Five max, maybe less – if you’d a mind to do the prep work yourself and go no-frills.’
‘Hey! You’re looking at “No-Frills Kelly”.’
‘And one more thing.’
‘Yeah?’
‘I might need you to do some overtime. I probably won’t, but if I do, I’ll look after you.’
‘Time-and-a-half?’
‘Double-time.’
‘I’m your man.’
Seamus McCann is a man who thinks the world of himself. Lanky and thin, and with a sombre disposition, this former commander of the South Down IRA Brigade looks more like a door-to-door Mormon missionary than someone who has spent the best part of his life plotting to kill British soldiers and police.
The dark mornings are upon them, and Seamus and Ructions are the only people on Bright Castle golf course, outside Downpatrick.
Ructions puts on his golf glove, takes out his driver and turns his attention to the first fairway. ‘Is there any point in hitting a ball?’
‘It’ll lift soon,’ Seamus says, his head tilting backwards as he scans the mist for signs of a break in the weather.
Ructions inhales the dewy crispness in the air as Seamus slowly pulls back his driver and drills the ball into the lifting mist. ‘Straight up the middle.’
‘You think so?’
‘I know so. I haven’t missed this fairway in ten years.’
Ructions pushes his tee into the ground and sets a golf ball on top of it. He takes some practice swings and focuses: arms straight, eye on the ball and a sharp strike. His ball flies straight into the trees to the right.
‘A decent effort,’ Seamus says, ‘but you didn’t aim for the fairway. You’ll find your ball easy enough.’
The two men pull their golf trolleys up the fairway.
‘Do you ever miss it, Seamus? The IRA … the struggle?’
‘Nah. It’d run its course. Too many people died for too little, Ructions, and too much time was spent in jail. Like, I’ve done twelve solid years.’
‘Yeah, you told me that last time.’
‘Did I? There y’are now. You were saying?’
‘Saying what?’
‘About big money.’
‘Oh, right. My client—’
‘Panzer O’Hare—’
Ructions gives Seamus the undertaker’s stare: measured and stern. ‘My uncle is not the client.’
Seamus studies Ructions with bemused eyes. Are you trying to read my thoughts, Ructions? You are, you fucking reprobate. Seamus cannot turn back the tide of a smile. Neither can Ructions. Both men have worked together before, and each knows that Panzer is the client, but for Ructions to acknowledge it would be unprofessional. Seamus puts up his hands. ‘Sorry about that.’
Ructions nods his acceptance of the apology. They walk towards the trees. ‘My client is committed to investing