I sat on the window ledge, asked,

“What’s on your mind?”

“You know me?”

“Nope.”

“You’re sure?”

“I don’t forget faces.”

“I’m Sweeper.”

I checked his face. He wasn’t kidding.

“No offence, pal, but it doesn’t mean shit to me.”

“The tinkers?”

“Is this some kind of joke?”

“I’m a man of little humour, Mr Taylor.”

“Call me Jack. So…what do you want?”

“Help.”

“I don’t know how I could do that.”

“You helped Ann Henderson.”

Her name caught me blindside, like a screech across my soul. Must have shown in my face. He said,

“I regret causing you sorrow, Mr Taylor.”

“Jack, it’s Jack.”

I flicked the cigarette, watched it arch high, then fall. I said,

“Look, Sweep…Jesus…what a name. I don’t do that any more.”

“She said you’d help.”

“She was wrong.”

I began to move. He put out his hands, said,

“They’re killing our people.”

It’s a show-stopper. No question. It stopped me. Turned to face him. He said,

“You’ve been away. I know that. In the past six months, four travellers have been killed.”

He paused, contempt in his eyes, continued,

“The guards, they’ve done nothing. I went to the superintendent, a man named Clancy. Do you know of him?”

I nodded and he said,

“For them, it’s only tinkers…and everybody knows, they’re always killing each other.”

“What do you think I can do?”

“You can find out.”

“Find out what?”

“Who’s killing them and why.”

Children of the Dead End

Patrick McGill

I ended up staying in Nestor’s for a few more days. Mainly because I couldn’t get it together to move. It was round noon, I was levelling out. Shouted Jeff for a pint. He asked,

“Bit early for it?”

“Jeez, I’m up since eight.”