“Stretch me legs,” he said. “And just so’s you know, I won’t be hiding in a car from the likes of Burke. Ill Be Hooves himself. He’ll have to find someone else’s grave to dance on.”

“Sounds like you’re setting yourself up to having a go at him.”

“I would if I wanted to,” said Kilmartin, mildly. “No better man, I tell you.”

Minogue was suddenly uneasy. Kilmartin might be unpredictable, already moved off into the territory where nothing much mattered any more, and where he had nothing to lose. He exchanged a glance with him.

“Look at you,” said Kilmartin, with a wry expression. “Expecting the worst.”

“Behave yourself,” Minogue said. “You Mayo bullock, you.”

Kilmartin looked through the dense thicket of hedge.

“I saw them eyeing me,” he said. “Those two feckers. What’d they say?”

“They asked to be remembered to you.”

“You lying whore’s ghost. I could tell by Burke’s face.”

Kilmartin buttoned his overcoat. Minogue noted how loosely it fit him.

“You should have the sense to give up the fags now,” said Kilmartin. “I’m going up here a bit and see what the commotion is.”

Minogue took a last, long drag of his cigarette while he watched Kilmartin’s progress up the road. In time, he set out after him. He kept his distance following him nonetheless, all the while taking in the forward cant, that assertive flat-footed gait, and the weary swagger that still hinted at a man who had been limber and strong, and once purposeful.

Chapter 7

They left Murph ’s car parked at the side of the warehouse. Fanning made a quick survey of the half-dozen sagging and rusted transport trailers huddled on the broken asphalt alongside the building, slowly sinking in amongst the weeds. A smell of engine oil hung in the air, pierced every now and then by a brackish, industrial tang. He heard the hush of traffic on the bypass a half-mile away.