Chapter One

Mal had walked holes in his shoes to save on bus fares.  As a result, he soon became familiar with the backstreets, building sites and industrial estates of the city.  Not that this helped much.  As Dublin slithered into a wet autumn and decent jobs proved more and more difficult to find, his panic rose as fast as his cash reserves diminished.  Yes, he had his Certificates, but he’d no experience with anything except horses and as they were scarce as hens’ teeth in Dublin, his options were limited.  Hundreds of country boys, just like him, were trying to make a go of it in the city, all fighting for the same few jobs in restaurant kitchens or on the buildings. 

Worse, he was the only male tenant in his digs and an easy target for the women who worked out of the house.  There were three of them.  The oldest, a hard-faced, foul-mouthed bottle blonde in her thirties, had a figure from which Mal could hardly tear his eyes.  And she knew it; taking every opportunity to embarrass him by flaunting her scantily covered assets in his direction.  He always blushed, at which point she would raise a sardonic eyebrow before hooting with laughter and disappearing into her room.

A younger blonde stank the house out with cheap foreign fags given to her by her sailor clients.  She never spoke, but stared at Mal whenever they met; as if she knew him but couldn’t quite remember who he was, which might have had something to do with the aroma of strong rum that usually surrounded her.

The third, a thin black girl with a huge but scary smile and fabulous legs suffered from alarming mood swings, was over friendly, and liked nothing more than to corner Mal to gossip about the others; something he hated.  He knew he’d have to listen to her for at least fifteen minutes before she’d accept his excuses and he could escape. 

Half fascinated, half repelled by his fellow tenants, Mal spent many sleepless hours wondering what they got up to with their clients, alternating between straining his ears for the sounds coming from the rooms above and sticking his head under his pillow to block them out.

It occurred to him he might have been better off staying at the presbytery after all.  Perhaps he should have gone along with Ma’s plans.

‘Conor’s written,’ Ma announced, as Mal wiped the remainder of the tomato ketchup from his plate with the last piece of bread and popped it into his mouth.  At her words, the bread felt dry on his tongue.  What did The Great God Conor have to say this time?  He chewed and swallowed, while Ma shuffled sheets of closely covered writing paper, searching for something.  She handed him a slip of paper.

‘Here it is - the address I told you about.  Conor says,’ she shuffled some more, ‘he says you’ll be able to stay there for a few weeks until you get yourself sorted.’  She looked at Mal.  ‘Conor has some great contacts up in Dublin so he’ll fix you up with a job, easy.’ 

A presbytery.  She wanted him to live in a bloody presbytery.  Not if hell had him.  The only good thing about leaving the farm was the chance to escape Ma’s nagging.  Trust her to get Conor to organise some priest or other to take her place.  He’d never stand a chance of persuading a girl to go back to his place if he lived in a presbytery.  Bloody Conor, who did he think he was, interfering in other people’s lives?  He looked at Ma, who was reading Conor’s letter again, a smile on her pale face; her fading auburn hair tucked neatly behind her ears.  She was always going on about him.  Her beloved eldest son.  Who could do no wrong - even though he hadn’t been seen since he left to go to the seminary all those years ago.  He’d never bothered to come home even once since.  And Ma, well, she was always full of excuses for him.  ‘It’s his job.  He travels a lot.  Even…’ and Ma always said this with relish, ‘… to Rome and the United States.’

She looked up from the letter, her silver-grey eyes shining with pride.  ‘Conor sends his thanks for those photos of Zach’s wedding.’

‘Never mind thanking you for the photos,’ growled Da.  ‘There’s no excuse for not turnin’ up at his brother’s wedding.  That was almost a year ago.  What kept him?’

Ma dropped her eyes and drew her lips into a narrow line.  ‘You know why he doesn’t come back, Sean.  It’s your fault for sending him away all those years ago.  He knows you don’t want him here.’

‘I did everything a soul could to bring him up right but it made no difference.  You know what he was like.’

Mal stood and gathered up the dirty plates and cutlery to take them to the sink.

‘Anyway,’ said Ma in a placatory tone, ‘he sent this.  Isn’t it beautiful?’

Mal turned around just in time to see his mother hand over a gold crucifix about six inches long, studded with bright stones.  Da gave it a cursory glance and spun it back across the tablecloth.

‘Very nice, Mary,’ he said without smiling.  ‘Though if Conor wants to send us something why doesn’t he send some money, which would help a hell of a lot more than this load of…,’ he hesitated, searching for a strong enough word, ‘load of shite he’s forever givin’ you.’

Ma gasped as she reached for her rosary.

‘How dare you speak about Conor like that?  He’s a great son.  He’s clever, and educated, and well respected in the Church.  God will punish you for saying that about His servant, Sean.  And I won’t forgive you either.’

‘He’s educated because I paid for him to be educated.  And when has he ever made any effort to pay me back?  He’s done nuthin’ for this family.  He was the divil when he was young and as far as I’m concerned, he’s the divil still.  You’re wrong in the head, Mary, if you think your precious Conor has changed at all, so you are.’

Mal, busy rinsing plates under the hot tap, turned off the water and dried his hands.  Why was his Da was so set against Conor?  He knew the old man didn’t take against anyone without a good reason so there must be something behind it.  For himself, he didn’t care.  Conor had gone to the seminary before Mal had even started school and he liked it fine that way.  He tried to imagine what it would be like if Conor did come back, with Ma and Conor ganging up on him and watching his every move.  No way.  Dublin had to be better than that.

He felt a nudge behind his knee and looked down into Jet’s big brown eyes.  Glancing into the pan on top of the stove, he saw three sausages left over.  After checking to see if Ma was looking, he picked one up, bit off the end then held the rest of the sausage down by his side.  A second later, it was gone and Jet was sitting beside him, tail thumping the floor, hoping for another.  His mother looked round.

‘You’re not feeding that dog again are you, Mal?  You know we can’t afford extra sausages.  Those were for your lunches tomorrow.  You’ll have to do without yours.’

‘Sorry, Ma!’  He should’ve saved one from his plate for Jet.

As the quarrel between his parents resumed he went upstairs to his room, where he opened the wardrobe and felt in the pockets of his Sunday suit.  After a few seconds, he pulled out a battered pack of ten Embassy and a box of matches.  Bending to avoid the low beams where the ceiling sloped towards the eaves, he crossed to the shallow window, opened it and leaned out to watch the last few pink and apricot clouds feather into fading turquoise.  Faint echoes of the ongoing argument drifted up to him.  He lit a fag and drew the smoke deep into his lungs, trying to stifle the anxiety and excitement churning around in his stomach, wondering what Dublin would be like.

Well, now he knew.  If he’d done as Ma wanted, he might have a good job by now and he’d be sending money back home regular.  And he wouldn’t be stuck with the worst housemates he could possibly have imagined.  Just the thought of Ma finding out about his digs made him blush with shame.  Asking around, he'd soon realised he couldn’t afford anywhere better so he had to make the best of it.

Mal had no luck at all in finding a job and was thinking about going back to Kerry when his fortunes changed.  The Anchor, a run-down, grubby pub a little way out of the city centre was cheap and popular.  Mal spent his evenings there to avoid the company of the prossies at his digs and to while away the hours before returning to his grim lodgings to sleep.  One evening, not long before closing, a stranger came into the bar and took the stool next to Mal’s.

‘So, what’s brought you to this place?’ he asked over the sound of Elton John’s Benny and the Jets played at full volume from the juke box, while observing the flat beer in Mal’s smeared glass.

‘I’m up from Kerry, looking for a job,’ said Mal with barely controlled eagerness.  He hadn’t spoken to many people over the past few weeks.  He glanced at the good-looking blond man with his smart clothes and air of confidence.  The man ordered a jar of black and raised one eyebrow towards Mal.

‘Another?’

‘Well, I would, but I can’t return the favour,’ said Mal sliding reluctantly from his stool while he pushed a few coins towards the barman.  The newcomer put out an arm to stop him.

‘My name’s Conway.  Luke Conway.  Sit down, why don’t you.  I’d like some company.’  Luke nodded for the barman to fill Mal’s glass.  ‘Have a black before you go, at any rate.’

Mal reoccupied his seat and the two men sipped their drinks for a while in silence.  Eventually, Luke Conway spoke.

‘What kind o’ work are you interested in, Mr…?’

‘Flynn, Malachy.  I was hopin’ to find something to do with the horses, though I know it’s unlikely in a grand place like Dublin.’

He watched as Luke’s lips stretched into a small smile of satisfaction, quickly suppressed, and wondered why his new acquaintance seemed so pleased with himself.

‘Hmm, I do know someone who might be able to help,’ said Luke.  ‘D’you know anythin’ about the betting business?’

‘I know how to place a bet and how to work out odds and how much I’ve won if the horse comes in,’ replied Mal, tapping the folded racing paper lying on the bar beside his drink.  ‘Why?’

‘As I said, I know someone who could maybe get you into the betting side of the game, but I’d have to be sure you were reliable.  You’d need to prove yourself.’

‘How?’  Mal paused, interested in what Luke was saying.  ‘How can I do that?’

‘Give me a couple o’ days to fix things up and I’ll see you in here again.’  Luke waved the barman over and paid for the drinks with a note, before finishing his Guinness in one long swallow.  Standing up, he slapped Mal on the shoulder and walked out of the bar without a backward glance.

After spending the previous six nights at the Anchor wasting money on beer he couldn’t really afford, Mal was wondering if he’d ever see Luke Conway again.  He took his half and, avoiding the inviting glance of the overblown barmaid who’d been giving him the eye every time she’d served him, he headed for the table in the furthest corner, where he sat nursing his drink.

Taking his tobacco tin and a pack of Rizlas from his pocket, he amused himself by making several very thin roll-ups.  He placed them to one side of the meagre shreds of tobacco remaining in the tin, wondering if he could afford another small packet of Golden Virginia.  He counted the few remaining notes in his wallet and the coins in his pocket.  Should he buy the tobacco or a final half of black?  Shaking his head, he decided he’d better leave it.  First thing in the morning, he’d phone Da.

He finished the dregs of his half and stood up to leave.  At the same moment, the door opened and in walked Luke.  He spotted Mal at once, waved, and went to the bar to order them each a drink.

‘I’m glad you’re here,’ he said, placing an overflowing pint of Ireland’s best in front of Mal and settling down at the opposite side of the table.  ‘There’s a small job to be done tonight and you might be the man to do it.’

There was a short pause while Mal, trying to hide his relief at Luke’s re-appearance, absorbed this information.  ‘What sort of a job,’ he asked, picking up his drink and taking a sip, ‘and how much will I get for it?’

‘A hundred.’

Two hours later, shivering with anticipation, Mal found himself keeping a lookout on a dark quayside by the Liffey.  He stood in the shadow of a warehouse overlooking the river, where the oily blackness of the water roiled and lapped only feet away.  There was nothing to see, apart from some shadowy figures staggering onto a barge with what looked like big heavy boxes.

Mal pushed to the back of his mind the thought that they must be up to something fishy, working in the dark at that time of night.  Still, it was none of his business.  Not really.  What he didn’t know couldn’t hurt him, could it?  He ignored his misgivings and thought about the money, a welcome boost to his finances just when he needed it most.

Luke, placing a rough hand on his shoulder, interrupted his reverie.

‘Jaysus, Luke!’ gasped Mal, knocking his elbow against the wall then rubbing it.  ‘You scared me.’

‘You’ve done well, Mal.  I think we might be able to put some more work your way.’

‘Is it to do with the betting?’

‘Not exactly!  Would you like to come back with me tonight and meet the others?’

It was a ten-minute walk to the place Luke and the rest of the Conways called home.  Mal was impressed as they approached the front door of a double fronted Victorian terraced house.  Luke showed him into a spacious, well-lit parlour on the ground floor.

‘Let me introduce you to everyone,’ said Luke, nodding to the two men who were sitting there, smoking. 

They looked Mal up and down.  He shifted his weight to his other foot feeling exposed and nervous.  This was like no job interview he’d ever imagined.

Mal groaned at the pain in his head as he opened his eyes.  He was alone among the debris of the previous night.  He slid a hand into his trouser pocket and felt the crisp notes he’d put there just a few hours before.  When Luke came into the room with two mugs of tea, Mal moved his tongue around his parched mouth and accepted one with gratitude.  Luke wasted no time.

That was double the money Mal was fingering in his trouser pocket.  After a short hesitation, he nodded, even though he didn’t know this Brogan.  He ignored the ominous feeling that settled in his stomach.  It’ll be fine, he thought. Sure it will. 

End of Extract