An IRA lawyer, Minogue reflected again, or so described by a disgruntled senior Garda friend of Kilmartin’s. Conniving afoot?

“Maybe I should give him a well-aimed kick so,” said Minogue. He reached for another chocolate. “And tell him it’s from you.”

The shot cracked in the dusk like a branch snapping. He laughed and lowered the gun.

“There’s a grand kick off this,” he said. “Not too much, and not too little.”

“Jesus Christ, Finbarr!” shouted the other man. “Don’t be such a fucking iijit! What the hell do you want to be doing that for?”

“You’ve had your bit of fun for the day. Why can’t I have mine?”

The other man, a little taller than the one with the pistol now dangling loosely at the ends of his fingers, bit back a retort. He swung the stock of the machine pistol back and stuck it in his armpit. Too short. Not meant to rest there? He stood up and slung the strap over his head before returning the stock to his armpit. He pulled the strap tight by shoving the gun forward. That’s more like it, he thought. He looked down in the grass by his feet where he had laid the plastic wrap and the ammunition clips which he had been filling.

“Was it good?” asked Finbarr.

“Was what good?”

Merry, heavy-lidded eyes met his. “The ride. Was she good today?”

“Shut up. I told you before about that.” He pulled the barrel down to feel the strap on his shoulder again. Good, steady. He spread his feet.

“Only asking.”

“Don’t ask. Mind your own business.”

His companion looked down into the bottle. “Very touchy today, aren’t we, Ciaran…darling?”

The other man ignored the gibe. Finbarr suddenly raised the Browning and loosed off another shot.