“Yeaaaahhhhh!”

Brennan clutched the walkie-talkie tighter behind his back and glanced over at the video camera set high in the wall. The big fella turned away. He was taking another swig out of the bottle.

Enough was enough. Brennan stepped over.

“Look,” he said. “That’s the limit.”

The big fella dropped the bottle inside his jacket. He stared at some point on Brennan’s chest.

“What’s A, P, F? I mean, you’re not a real cop, are you?”

“Airport Police, and yeah, I am a real policeman. Now turn that thing down, get your gear and move on.”

“- The F, though. There — APF F stands for something. Right?”

Brennan stared at him.

“Airport Police and Fire Service. Take your mates too.”

“So it’s like fires too, you have to put out fires, right? Like, big fires?”

Brennan stared into the bloodshot eyes. He couldn’t tell if it was just the slagging or something else on the way.

“Okay,” he said. “That’s it. Out of here. It’s over, let’s go.”

“Well wait a minute here.” The big fella wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I’ve got me rights haven’t I? No one’s hassled here, are they? All we’re doing is seeing the band off.”

He lit a cigarette. His eyes stayed steady on Brennan’s. A guitar riff howled behind him. The big fella started to snigger and turned away, shaking with laughter. Brennan looked from face to face, down at the ghetto blaster, the bags, the rucksacks. Badges everywhere, paint, beads, studs. And they thought Public Works was still the local lads, their pals. Gobshites. They didn’t even cop on that Public Works had their own frigging jet at the far end of the airport. That they were going off to do a video somewhere. That worldwide success didn’t begin with the bloody band climbing out of taxis and buses like ordinary Joe Soaps and pushing trolleys up to the bloody check-in. He wished he could tell them.