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Authors: Jonothan Cullinane
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to shake Tim’s hand. “Bones told me.”
“Oh, thanks, Johnny,” said Tim. “Yeah, it’s a bit of a bugger.”
“Are you going to have a service of any sort?”
“Well, he’ll be buried over there in Korea somewhere, of course,” said Tim. “In one of them military cemeteries, I’d think.” He took a deep breath. “We’re having a do at St Joseph’s on Friday morning. It’ll just be small, Johnny, don’t feel you have to.”
“Wouldn’t miss it, Tim,” said Molloy. “Paddy was a good bloke.”
“He wasn’t a bad little bugger, was he?” said Tim, concentrating hard on the pour, some movement in his chin. “Good halfback.”
“Bones and I were saying the same thing. Would’ve played for Auckland if it hadn’t been for the war.”
“The Kiwis even,” said Tim. “That’s what Scotty McClymont reckoned.”
“He’d know,” said Molloy. “I’m going to drop in and say hello to your mum tomorrow.”
“She’d like that, Johnny.”
Tim slid the beer across.
“Cheers,” said Molloy, putting a shilling on the bar.
Tim leaned forward. “Strange thing, the same day she heard he’d copped it, she got a postcard from him. Sent a couple of weeks before Christmas.” Tim drew words in the air. “Ended with something like, ‘Please don’t worry, Mum, and lots of love. Paddy.’” His eyes filled with tears. “And in her other hand she’s holding the ‘Regret to inform’ telegram from Fred fuckin’ Jones, pardon my French.”
“Hell,” said Molloy, at a loss.
“Hell’s right,” said Tim, blowing his nose into a tartan handkerchief. “Ah, well. Offer it up, as the nuns used to say. Anyway.” He got change from the cash register. “Friday at ten. But don’t feel obliged.”
“Very good,” said Molloy. “I’ll be there.”
Bones put a tray of dirty glasses and ashtrays on the counter next to where Molloy was standing.
“Billy still here?” said Molloy.
“Got the last tram,” said Bones. He lowered his voice. “Maori boy in the corner’s looking for you, though.”
“Where?”
“Behind me,” said Bones. “By the radio.”
Molloy looked at the reflection in the mirror above the bar. “How did he get in?” he asked. “All those locks and buzzers?”
“Size of the bastard, who was going to stop him?”
The Maori had one hand on a leaner and was sipping beer from a five-ounce glass.
“G’day,” said Molloy. “Johnny Molloy.”
The big man put down his glass. It was an eight, Molloy realised, but in his big fist it looked like a five.
“Sunny Day,” he said.
Day had a thick neck and broad shoulders. His skin was dark and his eyes were pale green. His nose was smeared across his face, brows held together by scar tissue. There were faded blue swallows tattooed on the webbing of both hands. His fists looked like hammers, knuckles large and misshapen and several shades of red.
“You’re looking for a cobber of mine,” he said. “Frank O’Flynn?”
“Am I now? What makes you say that?”
“Auckland’s a small place,” said Sunny, hooking a thumb. “He wants to talk to you, too. Car’s out the back.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Sunny’s Plymouth was parked across the other side of the yard. The passenger door faced away from the RSC and was shadowed by a dark line of macrocarpas. There was a figure in the passenger seat.
Sunny opened the back door. “In you hop,” he said with a mock salute. As Molloy lifted his arm to take off his hat Sunny punched him hard in the side below the ribcage. Molloy’s world turned red. Sunny spun him round and punched him with his other fist, this time in the solar plexus.
Molloy’s legs gave way and he slid down the side of the car, toppled to his knees, and pitched slowly forward onto the bitumen, trying to suck in air through a pinhole.
The passenger door opened. “Need a hand, Sunny?” said a high-pitched voice.
“No. I think it’s under control, thanks, Lofty.”
Sunny squatted down and waited
“Oh, thanks, Johnny,” said Tim. “Yeah, it’s a bit of a bugger.”
“Are you going to have a service of any sort?”
“Well, he’ll be buried over there in Korea somewhere, of course,” said Tim. “In one of them military cemeteries, I’d think.” He took a deep breath. “We’re having a do at St Joseph’s on Friday morning. It’ll just be small, Johnny, don’t feel you have to.”
“Wouldn’t miss it, Tim,” said Molloy. “Paddy was a good bloke.”
“He wasn’t a bad little bugger, was he?” said Tim, concentrating hard on the pour, some movement in his chin. “Good halfback.”
“Bones and I were saying the same thing. Would’ve played for Auckland if it hadn’t been for the war.”
“The Kiwis even,” said Tim. “That’s what Scotty McClymont reckoned.”
“He’d know,” said Molloy. “I’m going to drop in and say hello to your mum tomorrow.”
“She’d like that, Johnny.”
Tim slid the beer across.
“Cheers,” said Molloy, putting a shilling on the bar.
Tim leaned forward. “Strange thing, the same day she heard he’d copped it, she got a postcard from him. Sent a couple of weeks before Christmas.” Tim drew words in the air. “Ended with something like, ‘Please don’t worry, Mum, and lots of love. Paddy.’” His eyes filled with tears. “And in her other hand she’s holding the ‘Regret to inform’ telegram from Fred fuckin’ Jones, pardon my French.”
“Hell,” said Molloy, at a loss.
“Hell’s right,” said Tim, blowing his nose into a tartan handkerchief. “Ah, well. Offer it up, as the nuns used to say. Anyway.” He got change from the cash register. “Friday at ten. But don’t feel obliged.”
“Very good,” said Molloy. “I’ll be there.”
Bones put a tray of dirty glasses and ashtrays on the counter next to where Molloy was standing.
“Billy still here?” said Molloy.
“Got the last tram,” said Bones. He lowered his voice. “Maori boy in the corner’s looking for you, though.”
“Where?”
“Behind me,” said Bones. “By the radio.”
Molloy looked at the reflection in the mirror above the bar. “How did he get in?” he asked. “All those locks and buzzers?”
“Size of the bastard, who was going to stop him?”
The Maori had one hand on a leaner and was sipping beer from a five-ounce glass.
“G’day,” said Molloy. “Johnny Molloy.”
The big man put down his glass. It was an eight, Molloy realised, but in his big fist it looked like a five.
“Sunny Day,” he said.
Day had a thick neck and broad shoulders. His skin was dark and his eyes were pale green. His nose was smeared across his face, brows held together by scar tissue. There were faded blue swallows tattooed on the webbing of both hands. His fists looked like hammers, knuckles large and misshapen and several shades of red.
“You’re looking for a cobber of mine,” he said. “Frank O’Flynn?”
“Am I now? What makes you say that?”
“Auckland’s a small place,” said Sunny, hooking a thumb. “He wants to talk to you, too. Car’s out the back.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Sunny’s Plymouth was parked across the other side of the yard. The passenger door faced away from the RSC and was shadowed by a dark line of macrocarpas. There was a figure in the passenger seat.
Sunny opened the back door. “In you hop,” he said with a mock salute. As Molloy lifted his arm to take off his hat Sunny punched him hard in the side below the ribcage. Molloy’s world turned red. Sunny spun him round and punched him with his other fist, this time in the solar plexus.
Molloy’s legs gave way and he slid down the side of the car, toppled to his knees, and pitched slowly forward onto the bitumen, trying to suck in air through a pinhole.
The passenger door opened. “Need a hand, Sunny?” said a high-pitched voice.
“No. I think it’s under control, thanks, Lofty.”
Sunny squatted down and waited
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