Chapter 15

It was the world.

The was the problem.

It had always been the problem and it would always be the problem.

The fucking world!

The pain was excruciating. It went up his legs and into his head.

Fuck.

Fucking fuck.

Fucking cunting fuck.

It went up his legs and into his head. It went into his hands. It went into his head.

Fucking cunting fucking cunt.

He limped slowly along Lombard Street and turned gracelessly onto Townsend Street.

Everything seemed black and grey.

Not a batch of colour in this blasted place.

Grey.

He proffered his hands to those who passed him, but by and large, he was ignored.

Closed windows.

Taken no notice of. Not to worry. Think I’m. Someone else.

Fuck them.

On up.

The odd couple looked with pity upon him and passed him a penny or two.

—Thank you. Thank you.

Terrible, she said to herself, and she passed it to him.

—And the smell!

The fucking smell.

Absolutely terrible.

Blasted fucking life.

The pain in his back made his eyes screw up, as if he was constantly scrutinizing some invisible thing. Or looking inwards towards some imaginary hope.

He limped on, crossing the intersection of Shaw and Moss.

Children passed him

If only he had a stick.

Might make walking easier.

Rather not walk at all.

One of the children brushed past him, causing him to become unbalanced.

—Fuck ya.

The child stopped and turned to face him.

—Ah would ya piss off mister.

He said nothing in reply.

Better not antagonise him.

Might be others.

Could end up in hospital.

When he looked up again they had gone. Disappeared. Turning, he saw again the odd couple, turning on to Spring Garden lane.

Must live down there.

Did they know it was a street in Wan Chai, Hong Kong? That it was one of the first focal areas developed by the British in the 1840s? He doubted it.

Over run by the commies now.

Fuck them.

There was little he could do.

Go on up.

Little he could do.

To Fleet Street, maybe.

He could see the distant tops of Trinity.

On to Luke Street he turned, and made his way up to Tara Street Station.

Could take Train.

Out to Bray.

Stop here.

He gazed listlessly around him.

Nothing. Wait. Who’s?

It was Mac. Coming straight for him.

Ah Jesus, would you ever leave me alone.

—Thomas.

—Mac.

He wondered who the bitch was. Don’t recognise her.

—Where you headed?

—No where in particular.

He was lying.

—Was has you down this side of town? Is your area not.

—It is. But I was doing a spot of undercover.

—For?

—You know.

—Fair enough. What’s with your leg?

He looked down at it.

My leg.

Does he know Fahey? Should he give a flying fuck?

I was up visiting a friend. And I fell down the stairs.

The stairs, said the woman.

Who the fuck was she to open her mouth? Bitch. I should.

—Yes. The stairs.

—Looks nasty.

He looked at her.

—Not as nasty as your fucking face will look when I stick this into you fat fucking face.

She abhorred unnecessary repetition.

—Easy now Tommy.

She took a step towards him and exhaled.

Squaring up.

Bitch.

—Easy now children.

Mac stood between them and pushed them both in their respective ways.

You were saying, Mac said.

—What was I saying?

—You were off to?

—Bray. I was getting the train to.

—To Bray. Funny. We were going to take the bus out.

—The train is better.

—Is it business or pleasure?

—Is it not always a bit of both?

—It is either one or the other. I take no pleasure in killing.

They looked at each other.

They.

Leave them.

Leave them there. The three of them. Standing there. The one wanting to kill the other and the other wanting to the kill the one.

—And Mac?

—He had enough killing on his plate. He only had one left to kill. The rest were dead.

—Who was that?

—The Bossman.