looks down from a calendar.
Finbarr walks over to the two mechanics and, holding the pitchfork in both hands, thrusts it into Apple’s left thigh. There is a scream of unsolicited agony as Apple turns around, the spanner in his hand poised to strike back. Finbarr puts the pitchfork to Apple’s neck, one hand flat against the base of the tool and the other holding the shaft from above. Apple drops the spanner.
Geek charges into the barn. ‘What the fuck’s going on here?’
‘Don’t ever call me a bastard again, or I swear,’ Finbarr says with a wicked grin on his face, ‘I’ll leave your windpipe so full of holes, people will think it’s a cheese grater.’
‘I didn’t—’
‘Shut your fuckin’ grease-trap!’ Finbarr growls, his hands gripping the pitchfork even tighter.
‘Finbarr,’ Geek shouts, ‘put it down and get out! Go on, get out ta fuck.’
Finbarr backs off, the pitchfork still pointed at Apple.
‘Rudy, bring Apple over to the Big House and patch him up.’
‘You’ve got off light,’ Finbarr says as he reaches the barn door. ‘Next time …’
‘Out, Finbarr,’ Geek orders. ‘Now!’
Finbarr leaves.
Apple puts his hand on his thigh, and when he brings it up again, it’s coated in blood. ‘The bastard stuck me in the leg! I’ll—’
‘You’ll thank your lucky stars he didn’t stick you in the windpipe,’ Geek says.
‘Are you going to let him away with this?’ Apple says in a hysterical voice.
‘I’m going to report it to the boss.’
‘Is that it? You’re going to tell Daddy his son was a bold boy? Is that all you’re going to do?’
‘What else do you want me to do? Shoot him? Maybe I should tell Panzer O’Hare you want his son shot?’
Apple screws up his face and turns to Rudy. ‘Fuck this. Take me to the hospital.’
Rudy looks at Geek, who nods his approval.
Ructions pulls up into the O’Hare farmyard, switches off the ignition and stares at the bronze statue of his grandfather on his horse, Phantom. The plaque on the plinth simply reads: THE DEVIL. Ructions had hardly known his legendary horse-dealing ancestor, but he has a vivid memory from his own sixth birthday, of standing outside the large gateway to the family’s stables in Yewtree Street, off Belfast’s Falls Road, and of holding his Granny Mary’s hand.
He still recalls the detestable fawn overcoat that covered his knees, the woolly ski mask that roasted his ears and the hearty pong of horse manure. In his granny’s other hand was a small white pipe, which she sometimes wedged into the right side of her toothless mouth. From beneath her black shawl, whiffs of white hair stuck out, while dough-coloured skin scarcely covered jutting cheek and jaw bones. ‘Keep your eyes peeled, James,’ Granny Mary had said, sucking on the pipe. ‘The Devil and his disciples will be coming soon.’ Bewildered, the young lad looked all around. On the far side of the stables’ entrance, the yellow streetlight seemed to flare up before becoming smothered in the early morning fog.
Even now, decades later, Ructions can hear the clip-clop of hoofs on the cobblestones as three horsemen emerged from the fog at the entrance to the stables. In the middle had been The Devil, hunched and riding bareback on his palomino gelding, Phantom. On each side of him were his sons, Johnny and Bobbie. Bobbie, Ructions’ father, was leaning forward, stroking his horse’s ear.
Ructions can still remember how he had shuddered at the sight of The Devil on horseback. The lapels of his grandfather’s ankle-length brown overcoat had been pulled up to meet his black, crumpled hat. The only visible facial feature was his eyes, which, in the child’s vivid imagination, seemed to be glowing red. The Devil glanced down at Granny Mary, touched his hat with his riding crop, and steered Phantom to the left, breaking into a trot in the direction of Raglan Street. Granny Mary saluted her husband by raising her pipe, a lipless smile spreading on her sallow face. To this day, Ructions could recollect how he burned with envy as twelve of The Devil’s disciples followed their principal down the street on their way to the docks, where the animals would be shipped to England for sale.
The sound of an approaching engine catches Ructions’ attention. Panzer, with Geek alongside him, drives around the side of the Big House in his four-seater golf buggy, a golf bag set in the back of the vehicle.
Stopping some way from Ructions, Panzer turns to Geek, ‘And how is Apple?’
‘It’s not much more than a scratch,’ Geek says. ‘He’ll survive.’
‘I know Apple. He’ll remember this. I should talk to him.’
‘You should talk to Finbarr.’
‘Sure.’
‘I mean it, boss. The lad has a shotgun temper.’
‘I hear you. Now, how’s he coming along otherwise?’
‘You asked me a year ago to prepare him to take over the hands-on side of the business …’
‘Uh-huh?’
‘Well, he’s almost there.’
‘Almost?’
‘Almost,’ Geek says. ‘Besides his short fuse—’
‘Yes?’
‘He can be a bit chilled out, you know?’
‘Okayyy.’
Geek chops the air with his hand. ‘Don’t get me wrong, he has only to be told something once and he gets it. Like, this kid is … he’s laser-sharp. For example, your bar isn’t making money—’
‘It hasn’t for years.’
‘Finbarr has an idea to turn that around.’
‘He has?’
‘Yeah. He thinks you should lease it out at a reasonable rate and do a deal with the lessee on the profits from the gaming machines. That way, instead of losing dough, the bar makes you a few quid, and you still own the licence and the property.’
Panzer tilts his head thoughtfully and strokes his ear. ‘That’s not bad, not bad at all.’
‘If, if you were of a mind to lease it out,’ Geek says, ‘I’d like a rattle at it. I’ve been in business before.’
‘I know. If I remember right, your taxi business was flying until—’
‘Until that cunt Tiny Murdoch decided to close me down.’
‘Remind me again.’
‘He sent the ’RA to warn me to close down my taxi depot and when I didn’t, he had it burnt.’
‘And then he broke your leg?’
‘Yes. The cunt. With a breeze block.’ Unconsciously, Geek reaches down to rub his right leg.
‘When was that?’ Panzer asks.
Geek responds immediately. ‘Six years ago – 12 October 1998.’
Panzer raises his left eyebrow. ‘If I were you, I’d be careful about calling Murdoch a cunt. You’re right, he is a cunt, but he’s an IRA cunt, and that makes him dangerous.’
‘The fucker had my leg smashed with a breeze block – for nothing.’
‘I know he did,’ Panzer says, his voice trailing off. ‘Now, back to Finbarr.’
Geek is not ready to return to the subject of Finbarr. He must make sure that the idea of him leasing Panzer’s pub is firmly fixed in his boss’s head. ‘You’ll keep me in mind, though, if you do decide to lease