Mulhall teetered between annoyance and relief: so it was the gas company, after all.
“Howiya,” he called out, warily. He was frowning now, his eyes straying to the pistol in Mulhall’s hand.
A bit late to be trying to hide it now, Mulhall decided. He waited for fleeting eye contact, and then the man quickly looked down at his feet.
“Howiya yourself,” Mulhall said. “Get to work, why don’t you, you fat gobshite. And not be annoying people this early in the day.”
Well that was settled, then. More relieved than he was sore, or even angry, Mulhall strode down the lane, mapping out in his mind the entry of the laneway onto Ossory Road. He’d cross there, and head somewhere where he could lie low. The dumpsters behind the shops there would do for a short while, or even an old garden shed in one of the houses there. Then, back to Bernie, get some stuff and clear off. Mr. Gas Man down the lane was hardly going to keep his trap shut about seeing a fella with a gun, was he. Mulhall could hardly blame him.
The weight of the pistol dragging on his arm with each stride came to his attention. The laneway was covered in damp patches, with clumps of mashed cardboard every now and then. It felt greasy underfoot. God, but he must look totally stupid, he thought, like a schoolkid holding his mickey and going up to the teacher to get permission to go to the toilet.
He thought for a moment of Bernie, and suspicion flashed across his mind. It didn’t last. Bernie, if it were possible, was even thicker than Martin. He slowed, and the anger returned. This was what he was reduced to, hanging with the likes of Murph, and Martin, and Martin’s retarded missus? Something had to give here, he murmured. Maybe it was time to do the thing, make his move.