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Authors: Sam Millar
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table.
“Thanks for that pint, Paul,” said Stevie, magically appearing at Paul’s side, an almost empty glass in his hand. Paul could see Lucky in the background, holding his hand down at his crutch, making a circle with finger and thumb, and pointing in Stevie’s direction.
Forcing a bubble of laughter back down his throat, Paul thanked Stevie for getting him the job. He decided not to mention the weird girl behind the desk, or indeed, any of the others.
“Another pint, Stevie?” asked Paul, knowing the answer before the smile appeared on Stevie’s face. “Three pints,please, Terry.”
Terry glared at Stevie. Another pissy whore.
“Brilliant, mate,” said Stevie, ignoring Terry’s look. “I’ll see to you next week. I’m due a wee bit of money. Anyway, how did it go at the abattoir? Any problems? Hope you told them you knew me. I’ve got a lot of pull in that place. I knew that once you mentioned my name, the job was yours.”
“Yes, everything went well. I got to meet Shank. He gave me a tour of the place.” Paul thought it best not to mention the bloody bath ceremony.
Stevie’s left eyebrow curled into a hairy question mark. “You actually got to meet him? That must have been an experience?”
“An experience? Big deal. He owns an abattoir. Who gives a shit?” replied Paul, faking bravado as he removed a cigarette from a battered packet. He lit it, and it sizzled in the air, cracking and spitting with dryness.
Terry interrupted the conversation, placing the filled glasses on the counter, before walking away, shaking his head.
“Shank did time in jail,” whispered Stevie. “He never leaves the abattoir, they say, because he is wanted in other countries for murder and racketeering.”
Paul shook his head, believing this to be another of Stevie’s boasts. “Don’t talk shit. Yes, Shank is a scary and intimidating character – but a murderer? C’mon!”
Stevie sucked on his pint, then licked his lips, tasting the remnants of Guinness skidded on them, before continuing.
“You know the loan shark, Jack Daley?”
“Yes,” replied Paul. “Of course. Who doesn’t?” Daly was a thug in a league of his own. He was the high priest of violence.Loved it. Loved its taste and sounds, its power and what it could do to those weaker. He was the type of scumbag that you could kill with a clear conscience, putting a smile even on the face of the gods. Few people in town had escaped his fists.
“Well, look upon him as a loan
sardine
when comparing him to Shank. Daly worships the man, fears him.”
Paul laughed. “Daly fears Shank? Come off it, will ye? How the hell would you know?”
Stevie glanced over his shoulder, making sure no one was in earshot.
“I remember years ago, as a kid, Daly coming to my house looking for my da. Apparently, my da owed money to Daly – as most people in town did, in those days. I remember peeping from behind our parlour door, watching Daly putting the heavy hand on my da, telling him he had one hour to come up with the money, or else …”
For exactly ten seconds, only the sound of snooker balls kissing could be heard while Stevie paused dramatically.
“Or else?” said Paul, eventually, irritated by Stevie’s drama.
“Or else Daly would have to work him over, put him in hospital for a few days …”
A few more seconds elapsed.
“Is there a end to this story? Or do I guess it?” asked Paul, becoming more irritable.
“Well, I couldn’t quite hear every single word, but I heard one word and that one word changed not only the features of Daly’s face, but the entire direction of the conversation.”
“And that one word …?”
“Shank.”
Paul laughed. “I see where we’re going with this. Shankthen takes control of your da’s payments and your da ends up paying double to Shank, in the long run. Smart da,” laughed Paul, sarcastically.
“No. Not exactly. It seems my da saved the life of Shank’s cousin during the war – he even got
“Thanks for that pint, Paul,” said Stevie, magically appearing at Paul’s side, an almost empty glass in his hand. Paul could see Lucky in the background, holding his hand down at his crutch, making a circle with finger and thumb, and pointing in Stevie’s direction.
Forcing a bubble of laughter back down his throat, Paul thanked Stevie for getting him the job. He decided not to mention the weird girl behind the desk, or indeed, any of the others.
“Another pint, Stevie?” asked Paul, knowing the answer before the smile appeared on Stevie’s face. “Three pints,please, Terry.”
Terry glared at Stevie. Another pissy whore.
“Brilliant, mate,” said Stevie, ignoring Terry’s look. “I’ll see to you next week. I’m due a wee bit of money. Anyway, how did it go at the abattoir? Any problems? Hope you told them you knew me. I’ve got a lot of pull in that place. I knew that once you mentioned my name, the job was yours.”
“Yes, everything went well. I got to meet Shank. He gave me a tour of the place.” Paul thought it best not to mention the bloody bath ceremony.
Stevie’s left eyebrow curled into a hairy question mark. “You actually got to meet him? That must have been an experience?”
“An experience? Big deal. He owns an abattoir. Who gives a shit?” replied Paul, faking bravado as he removed a cigarette from a battered packet. He lit it, and it sizzled in the air, cracking and spitting with dryness.
Terry interrupted the conversation, placing the filled glasses on the counter, before walking away, shaking his head.
“Shank did time in jail,” whispered Stevie. “He never leaves the abattoir, they say, because he is wanted in other countries for murder and racketeering.”
Paul shook his head, believing this to be another of Stevie’s boasts. “Don’t talk shit. Yes, Shank is a scary and intimidating character – but a murderer? C’mon!”
Stevie sucked on his pint, then licked his lips, tasting the remnants of Guinness skidded on them, before continuing.
“You know the loan shark, Jack Daley?”
“Yes,” replied Paul. “Of course. Who doesn’t?” Daly was a thug in a league of his own. He was the high priest of violence.Loved it. Loved its taste and sounds, its power and what it could do to those weaker. He was the type of scumbag that you could kill with a clear conscience, putting a smile even on the face of the gods. Few people in town had escaped his fists.
“Well, look upon him as a loan
sardine
when comparing him to Shank. Daly worships the man, fears him.”
Paul laughed. “Daly fears Shank? Come off it, will ye? How the hell would you know?”
Stevie glanced over his shoulder, making sure no one was in earshot.
“I remember years ago, as a kid, Daly coming to my house looking for my da. Apparently, my da owed money to Daly – as most people in town did, in those days. I remember peeping from behind our parlour door, watching Daly putting the heavy hand on my da, telling him he had one hour to come up with the money, or else …”
For exactly ten seconds, only the sound of snooker balls kissing could be heard while Stevie paused dramatically.
“Or else?” said Paul, eventually, irritated by Stevie’s drama.
“Or else Daly would have to work him over, put him in hospital for a few days …”
A few more seconds elapsed.
“Is there a end to this story? Or do I guess it?” asked Paul, becoming more irritable.
“Well, I couldn’t quite hear every single word, but I heard one word and that one word changed not only the features of Daly’s face, but the entire direction of the conversation.”
“And that one word …?”
“Shank.”
Paul laughed. “I see where we’re going with this. Shankthen takes control of your da’s payments and your da ends up paying double to Shank, in the long run. Smart da,” laughed Paul, sarcastically.
“No. Not exactly. It seems my da saved the life of Shank’s cousin during the war – he even got
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