“Stuff you, wee man,” the one in the baseball cap said, released his hold on the girl, and swung a punch at Keogh, who caught the wrist, twisted, and ran him face first into the wall.

“You bastard!” the third youth cried and rushed him.

Keogh’s left hand came out of his pocket holding the Walther and he slashed the youth across the face, splitting the cheek from the left eye to the corner of the mouth. He raised the gun and fired, the distinctive muted cough of the silenced weapon flat in the rain.

Baseball Cap was on his knees, the other clutching his cheek, blood pouring through his fingers. Pat stood there, rage on his face.

“You bloody swine!”

“It’s been said before.” Keogh touched him between the eyes with the silenced end of the Walther. “Not another word or I’ll kill you.”

The youth froze. Kathleen Ryan was pulling her skirt down. Keogh said, “Back to that cafe of yours, girl. I’ll see you soon.”

She hesitated, staring at him, then turned and ran away along the alley.

THERE WAS ONLY the rain now and the groans of the injured. Pat said wildly, “We did what you told us to do. Why this?”

“Oh, no,” Keogh said. “I told you to frighten the girl a little and then I’d come and save her.” He found a cigarette one-handed and lit it. “And what were we into? Gang rape.”

“She’s a dirty little Prod. Who cares?”

“I do,” Keogh told him. “And I’m a Catholic. You give us a bad name.”

Pat rushed him. Keogh swayed to one side, tripping him with his right foot, and dropped one knee down hard in his back. Pat lay there sobbing in the rain.

Keogh said, “You need a lesson, son.”

He jammed the muzzle of the Walther against the youth’s thigh and pulled the trigger. There was a muted report and Pat cried out.

Keogh stood up. “Only a flesh wound. It could have been your kneecap.”