“When do you want it to happen?”

He smiled. If warmth had ever touched that expression, it had long since fled. He had his teeth filed down to points, adding to the sardonic effect. He said,

“As soon as you find a suitable dribbling idiot.”

She wanted to say,

“Have you been in the pubs in Quay Street recently?”

But irony was not his strong point.

He suddenly leapt to his feet, the Japanese knife curled in his right hand. He said to Sean,

“More drinks me-finks.”

Sean knew when Bine tried to speak Brit, shit was coming down the pike. And hard. He poured the Wild into Bine’s tumbler, trying to disguise the tremble in his hand. Bine began to move down the table, humming, We are the champions. Stopped behind Jimmy, who began to turn till Bine laid a hand on his shoulder, asked,

“Why does the priest live?”

Almost a metaphysical question.

Before Jimmy could mutter some answer, Bine leant forward, slashed his cheek from eye to mouth. Blood gushed onto the headstone. Jimmy gasped, raised his hand to stem the flow.

Bine said,

“Let it bleed.”

Cue to Bethany, who moved to the sound system, put on Exile on Main St. As Jagger began to moan and Keith laid on the heavy thump, Bine moved back to the map of the school, said, “December Eight, the Feast of the Immaculate Conception, they’ll be having their special treat of turkey in the canteen.”

Swung around, eyed his crew, said, as he literally cackled,

“A turkey shoot.”

God holds unique plans for those who label others

….handicapped.

– Jeff, dad of Serena-May

Tom Reed had been born with Down syndrome.

“Mild,” the doctor had said.

Tess, Tom’s mum, nearly screamed,

“Fucking mild to you, you golfing bastard!”

And sure enough, the doc was due on the links in, like, jig time, so he didn’t have a whole lot of time to mutter the platitudes. The woman was whining blue murder and he wanted to say,