Eight Ball Boogie - Declan Burke [21]
“He broke it off?”
“Three weeks from the big day out, his brother’s family home from South Africa, the works. We were going out for a year, engaged for eighteen months. Next thing he turns around and says he can’t go through with it, he doesn’t love me anymore. What the fuck love had to do with it in the first place. He was good in the nest, took regular showers, paid his share of the bills. That was about the height of it.”
The pub had filled up, the babble of conversation loud enough for us to talk without being overheard. It was pleasant sensation, like we were trapped in a bubble.
“There’s worse reasons for getting married.”
“Ach – I was just fed up with the job, doing the same thing every week. The wedding was just an excuse, something other than the pub on a Friday night, curry chip for a treat. Biggest favour anyone did me, him walking out.”
“Sounds like a bit of a prick if you ask me.”
“I’m not asking. You’re as big a prick as he was, Harry, most blokes are. That’s your job. A woman’s job is to change you from being pricks to something better. I wasn’t good enough at the job, that’s all. End of story.”
It was getting on for eleven o’clock, as good a time to change the subject as any.
“Seeing anyone now?”
She looked up from her drink, nose wrinkling.
“That’s the best offer I’ve had in weeks. So you can imagine how pathetic the others were.”
“I didn’t mean…”
She laughed.
“So say something you do mean.” Her voice soft and warm again. Eyes locked on mine, gaze steady. Fear churned through the anticipation, and a warm tingle ran up my spine. My throat went dry. It was the old familiar feeling, the kind of old and familiar that needs carbon dating. Besides, there was already plenty of space for a wedge to be driven between Denise and me, and with Gonzo back in town I wouldn’t need to buy a new mallet. I took refuge in my pint. She laughed, frustrated.
“You play this hard to get with every woman who buys you a pint?”
“I’m not hard to get. That’s my jokes.”
“True enough.” She sipped her drink, considered me across the rim of the glass. “So what are you, queer?”
“It’s worse. I’m married.”
“I don’t see any ring.”
“We call him Ben. He’s four years old.”
“Nice name.”
“I couldn’t spell anything more complicated.”
“I can sympathise.” The wide-eyed gaze dared me to look away. I took the dare. She stubbed her cigarette out and said, just loud enough for me to hear: “I’m not that fussed on complications myself.”
She dug a pen from her handbag, scrawled a number on a beer mat. Then, without saying another word, she got up and left. I watched her go and then tore the number off the beer mat. I looked at it for a long time, knowing what I should do. Then I put the scrap of paper in my wallet where I knew Denise would never find it, behind the condom.
Dutchie leaned across the bar as I put my jacket on.
“Are you driving?”
“Don’t be daft. Alfred’s waiting with the limo.”
“Don’t take the bridge. The Dibble were pulling there earlier on.”
“Cheers.”
I downed the last of the pint, which put me at least five full pints over the limit, but I’d never thought with such clarity before. My reactions were sharp, vision twenty-twenty. I hadn’t had a woman come on to me like that in years, not even Denise, especially not Denise. I felt buoyant, untouchable. Bulletproof.
Of course, that was before all the shooting started.
8
If you’re going to get kicked senseless it’s best to take certain precautions. Getting drunk is one. That way you go with the flow and don’t resist, which is how bones get broken, especially when there’s three of them and one is wielding an empty beer keg like it’s a beach ball.
I didn’t even see them coming. One moment I was drunk and warm, thinking about Katie and feeling pretty damn good about myself. The next I was rolling in the gutter, ducking flailing boots and what felt like a length of thick chain. I locked my hands around my head, curled into a ball and tried to scream.
They were quiet, efficient and deadly. The only sounds were hollow thuds, squishy splats.