Read Online The Circle Now Is Made (King's Way Book 1) by Mac Fletcher - Free Book Online
Authors: Mac Fletcher
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duty. He considered her marginally more sensitive than Eddy; though only marginally.
“Everyone moans about hospitals these days, Vi,” he droned as he plonked his glass on the counter, “I have only praise for them.” His voice went up an octave as he continued, “I had superb treatment: night sister gave me a blow job before I came out."
“Yes Cyril, but we can’t all afford BUPA.”
Miffed but not silenced, Cyril decided to pick on Eddy instead: a situation akin to a drunken mouse challenging a cat.
“Kevin Costner I presume,” he sniggered as he surveyed the denims. “One of his old films on last night.”
“I saw it,” said Eddy. “I think he made it after he died."
“He’s not dead yet."
“Good actor."
Cyril decided to be more direct, so he sneered at the way the barman was dressed. “Playing cowboys at your age - you must be a right bunch of devos down that club.”
“There’s a bloke standing here,” said Eddy as he turned calmly to Greg. "Pays nearly a week’s wages for a season ticket to spend all winter in pissing rain, watching a bunch of overgrown kids kicking a bladder the length and breadth of a mud-bath - then chances getting mugged fighting his way off the ground. And he say I'm a crackpot for wearing denims!” Eddy took Cyril’s ungainly specs from where he’d left them and put them on.
“Jesus!” he exclaimed as he squinted at blurred outlines, “you must have good eyesight to see through these.”
Cyril was saved, as at that moment the bar door swung open, and in lumbered bearded giant Fergal Haye. Cyril quickly returned to the bandit: he was petrified of Fergal and had no wish to mix with him.
Fergal was another big man, but genial and gentle with it. He worked on road developments and building sites, and generally in places that were unpleasantly cold in winter, and hot and sticky in summer. Ninety five per cent of the time he was ingratiatingly docile, for the remaining five per cent uncontrollably drunk and - given his combined size and strength - potentially dangerous. Provided he was humoured, however, the worst thing he was likely to do was drop his trousers in company, and laugh like Quasimodo at the uproar. Fergal was always a favourite on pub outings and so forth, because of his love of dressing up and making an ass of himself, though Holly Tree regulars were careful to stay on the right side of him as he neared the point of no return.
Eddy noticed that Greg was staring almost in awe at the giant.
“Don’t worry,” he whispered reassuringly, “he’s one of the lads. I’ve watched him operate a road drill with one hand and read The Sun with the other." The barman went on to tell of a weekend trip to Blackpool when the lads had chipped in for a donkey-ride for Fergal - just so they could get a snap of the spectacle. The donkey’s owner had other ideas:
“You’re not putting that on mar fuckin’ donkey!”
Cyril had by now been joined by his reptilian friend Wheeler, and the pair were playing the bandit by turns. “Strange, they seem thicker than ever lately,” remarked Eddy as he took a crinkly roll-up from his tin. “Wonder what their game is?” Greg, who bore the expression of someone who'd had his memory jogged, turned to Eddy.
“The first lunchtime I was in here,” he said, “you mentioned a message from Penmaric; regarding the whereabouts of his legacy. Do you recall?”
“Yes.” Eddy nodded cautiously. “But I also said it was hearsay. Don’t quote me on it for Christ’s sake.”
“No, I wouldn’t do that. Just tell me who you heard it from.”
Eddy fixed Greg with a half amused stare. “You knocking her off or something?”
“Who?”
“Penmaric’s widow - hotter than Vindaloo I hear.”
“No,” said Greg firmly, though he couldn’t resist smiling, “but between you and me, she knows nothing of such a message. Who did you hear it from?”
“Between you and me it is then!” Eddy confided. “Hud and Ten
“Everyone moans about hospitals these days, Vi,” he droned as he plonked his glass on the counter, “I have only praise for them.” His voice went up an octave as he continued, “I had superb treatment: night sister gave me a blow job before I came out."
“Yes Cyril, but we can’t all afford BUPA.”
Miffed but not silenced, Cyril decided to pick on Eddy instead: a situation akin to a drunken mouse challenging a cat.
“Kevin Costner I presume,” he sniggered as he surveyed the denims. “One of his old films on last night.”
“I saw it,” said Eddy. “I think he made it after he died."
“He’s not dead yet."
“Good actor."
Cyril decided to be more direct, so he sneered at the way the barman was dressed. “Playing cowboys at your age - you must be a right bunch of devos down that club.”
“There’s a bloke standing here,” said Eddy as he turned calmly to Greg. "Pays nearly a week’s wages for a season ticket to spend all winter in pissing rain, watching a bunch of overgrown kids kicking a bladder the length and breadth of a mud-bath - then chances getting mugged fighting his way off the ground. And he say I'm a crackpot for wearing denims!” Eddy took Cyril’s ungainly specs from where he’d left them and put them on.
“Jesus!” he exclaimed as he squinted at blurred outlines, “you must have good eyesight to see through these.”
Cyril was saved, as at that moment the bar door swung open, and in lumbered bearded giant Fergal Haye. Cyril quickly returned to the bandit: he was petrified of Fergal and had no wish to mix with him.
Fergal was another big man, but genial and gentle with it. He worked on road developments and building sites, and generally in places that were unpleasantly cold in winter, and hot and sticky in summer. Ninety five per cent of the time he was ingratiatingly docile, for the remaining five per cent uncontrollably drunk and - given his combined size and strength - potentially dangerous. Provided he was humoured, however, the worst thing he was likely to do was drop his trousers in company, and laugh like Quasimodo at the uproar. Fergal was always a favourite on pub outings and so forth, because of his love of dressing up and making an ass of himself, though Holly Tree regulars were careful to stay on the right side of him as he neared the point of no return.
Eddy noticed that Greg was staring almost in awe at the giant.
“Don’t worry,” he whispered reassuringly, “he’s one of the lads. I’ve watched him operate a road drill with one hand and read The Sun with the other." The barman went on to tell of a weekend trip to Blackpool when the lads had chipped in for a donkey-ride for Fergal - just so they could get a snap of the spectacle. The donkey’s owner had other ideas:
“You’re not putting that on mar fuckin’ donkey!”
Cyril had by now been joined by his reptilian friend Wheeler, and the pair were playing the bandit by turns. “Strange, they seem thicker than ever lately,” remarked Eddy as he took a crinkly roll-up from his tin. “Wonder what their game is?” Greg, who bore the expression of someone who'd had his memory jogged, turned to Eddy.
“The first lunchtime I was in here,” he said, “you mentioned a message from Penmaric; regarding the whereabouts of his legacy. Do you recall?”
“Yes.” Eddy nodded cautiously. “But I also said it was hearsay. Don’t quote me on it for Christ’s sake.”
“No, I wouldn’t do that. Just tell me who you heard it from.”
Eddy fixed Greg with a half amused stare. “You knocking her off or something?”
“Who?”
“Penmaric’s widow - hotter than Vindaloo I hear.”
“No,” said Greg firmly, though he couldn’t resist smiling, “but between you and me, she knows nothing of such a message. Who did you hear it from?”
“Between you and me it is then!” Eddy confided. “Hud and Ten
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