13 - The Irishman
Logan
After last night’s mind-scarring shenanigans, I desperately needed something to sear the image of my dad’s hairy arse from my brain, so I’d text the boys this morning to meet at our local boozer.
They were only too happy to oblige. After last night’s failed attempt to tell Dad about Cordelia, I decided the boys were the next best choice.
They’d find out eventually anyway, and I couldn’t keep this to myself.
The Wandering Pint is an Olde worlde-come-gastropub. Set into one of those historical buildings; a coach house or something. Brings in the punters; they like shit like that.
It’s the type of place that feels like an extension of someone’s living room. Family-run; everyone’s welcome; no matter who you are or where you come from.
Saying that, the vibe is typically British, with timber beams running along the ceiling and framing the dusty windows to the street.
A sturdy wooden bar stretches across the side closest to the door, featuring an array of local ales and ciders on tap, as well as a wide selection of wine and all the usual spirits lining the shelves at the back.
Regulars occupy most of the leather barstools, bantering with one another whilst dipping their grimy fingers in and out of the deep bowl of nuts being passed down the bar.
There’s an unlit fireplace built into a stone pillar erected through the centre, leading to a cosy seating area with tables laid out in preparation for the busy evening ahead.
Individual booths line the perimeter of the restaurant floor, a slightly more personal option for those who want it.
The landlord reserves us the same booth in the window without fail, in case we decide to stop by.
It’s the prime viewing position for the flatscreen mounted on the far wall, reeling off the latest football scores.
“Your round, Cox,” Ezio says, slamming his empty glass on the table with enough gusto to shatter the damn thing.
“Sure,” I nod, stepping out from behind the booth. “Same again?”
“Sì signore.”
My eyes slide over to Clarke, who’s donning a broad, hopeful grin. “I’ll have a Carling.”
All it takes is a look shared between the three of us. A telltale glance that communicates more than words. Clarke knows the rules, like the rest of us. I’m pretty sure Scar threatened most of the landlords in England, and a fair few in Italy too.
“Nice try, buddy, not happening.”
As I walk away, Spanish profanities swallow the space I just occupied. It must really suck being nineteen and unable to enjoy a pint with your mates in the pub or a glass of wine with a fancy family meal.
Addictions a bitch.
The girl working the bar flutters her lashes at me.
“What can I get ya, handsome?”
This girl needs to get her eyes tested if she thinks I look handsome; I’m still sporting facial war wounds from my fight with Teddy. I don’t recognise her. Must be new, so I flash her my usual smile: friendly, with a flirty undertone.
“Two Carling’s and, err, a coke.”
“Only got Coke Zero. That be okay?”
I snort, poor Clarke. “Yeah, great, thanks.”
I add a packet of scratchings, hand over a crisp twenty, and grunt at the measly amount of change she drops in my palm.
Clarke’s lips press together in a frown, grumbling at the glass of Coke I place in front of him.
It’s as if it has personally wronged him and its mere existence offends him.
The scratchings land in his lap to soften the blow.
I, however, take a swig from my nice cold pint, smiling in smug satisfaction as I slide back into my seat.
“Working on your telekinesis skills, amigo?” Ezio chuckles lightly, eyeing Clarke over the glass in his hand. Clarke screws up his nose, flipping us the middle finger.
His eyes narrow to slits, a hiss seeping through his clenched teeth. “I fucking hate you two sometimes.”
“It’s for your own good,” I preach, throwing him a wink. Only it hurts because my eye socket’s still hella swollen.
Ezio turns to me, smirking at the grimace on my face. “What made you so desperate to drown your sorrows so early on the Lord’s Day?”
“Eurgh,” I groan loudly, remembering the real reason I’m here. “Walked in on my dad last night.”
“Doing the dirty?” Ezio wiggles his eyebrows.
“Aye,” I rest my head in my hand, rolling a rogue grain of salt around with the pad of my finger. “Let’s just say my introduction to Trixie…revealed a lot more than I wanted to see.”
“Trixie got a good rack?”
“Clarke. What the fuck, man?” I blurt out dubiously, eyes narrowing in his direction.
He shrugs. “Your dad has good taste. Your mum--“
“We are not discussing my dead mother’s tits. Fuck’s sake, Clarke,” I snap, cutting him off, before he says something that has me launching at him from across the table. Wouldn’t be the first time we’ve been at each other’s throats.
Ez slaps his palm to his head, as if he’s got no words for our buddy’s surly behaviour. I heave a breath, running my fingers over the droplets of condensation sliding down the tall glass.
My throat dries up like the dregs in the bottom, and before I can stop myself, the words come tumbling out.
“Oh yeah. And Cordelia might be pregnant.” They spew from my lips at speed. Hopefully fast enough that they can’t understand me.
Ezio spits his drink out, spluttering beer all over the table, and Clarke nearly chokes on his cheap imitation coke.
“Did you just say what I think you did?” Ez questions, eyes widening when I nod reluctantly.
“Yeah,” I lift my gaze to Clarke so he can see my bitter expression, before turning away. “That dare. The fucking condom split.”
“Fuck. Didn’t she take the pill?”
“Dunno,” I reply honestly. “I’ve not managed to pin her down long enough to ask; not without her hurling abuse at me, anyway.”
Ez taps his finger against his chin, eyes glued to the dodgy paint job on the ceiling. Seriously, what rogue trader did they hire to decorate here? Who wallpapers a fucking ceiling?
“Have you had proof?”
“Proof?” I drag my gaze back down from the curling wallpaper. “You mean besides listening to her chuck her guts up down the toilet? No.”
“She doesn’t seem the sort of kid to lie,” Clarke throws in his two cents. “But I agree. You need hard evidence.”
“I need you two to help me convince her I’m not a prick.”
They stare at me blankly; both trying to refrain from smiling.
Idiots.
The bell above the door chimes, startling us all. In comes a group of rowdy-looking blokes. Irish, judging by their accents. The boys follow my gaze, spotting him at the same time I do.
Cillian Delaney.
The older brother of the kid who took a dive in the Thames.
The hum of the bar dims, and their brash conversation quickly takes over. There’s four of them altogether, but I only recognise Cillian and his bodyguard. The shorter, stout one orders a round of Guinness, whilst another pours it on thick with the young barmaid.
Clarke’s hand snakes under the table, hovering by his side.
The blade he keeps tucked in his boot, ready at a moment’s notice.
I snap my lips together and shake my head, hoping he understands.
We don’t need him starting shit with our enemies.
Which begs the question as to why they’re here in the first place; a good week in advance of Fionn’s funeral?
Probably skulking around, seeing what information they can drag out of people.
Cillian’s a nasty fucker. Looks like a decent guy on the outside; ruggedly handsome, smartly dressed. But I’ve heard the stories that circulate the streets; he’s anything but. Apparently, he once burnt down someone’s entire estate for bad-mouthing his mother…
“Drink up, and let’s get the fuck out of here,” I say to the boys, chugging the remainder of my pint.
Cillian, however, has other ideas. His wicked eyes scan the room, landing on our table, and he starts walking over, strides full of swagger.
“Well, aint that adorable,” he slurs, clutching his glass between his fingers. Sounds like he may have been drinking prior to coming here. “It’s the mini mafia.”
Clarke’s lip curls into a sinister snarl. Ezio looks indifferent, and considering Cillian’s brother sent his younger sister to an early grave, he’d have every right to kick off. I decide to try to be diplomatic, not something I pride myself on, but here we are.
“Cillian,” I step out from behind the table, hand outstretched in offering. “Sorry to hear about your brother.”
Cillian doesn’t take it. He raises a dark brow mockingly. “No, you’re not, lad,” he sniggers, eyes darting sideways to Clarke and back again. “But thanks all the same.”
I nod, sitting back down. Cillian raises the glass in his right hand. “Care for a drink?” He smirks at Clarke, who’s practically vibrating with the need to stab somebody. A sharp kick under the table reminds him not to do anything stupid.
“Actually, we’re just leaving,” I reply regretfully. “Another time.”
“Cillian, lad!” One of his buddies booms across the room. “This place here’s got a jukebox!”
His lips curve, and he wiggles his eyebrows, spinning on his heel. He flicks his right ankle over his left, leaning his arse against our table. “Then what you waiting for, Connor?”
His balding friend slips a coin into the machine, and this fast-paced, colourful tune fills the room. Loud, rebellious and undeniably Irish.
Clarke glowers at me; not his taste in music. I kind of like it; the wailing of the bagpipes, the twang of the tin whistle, mixed with the electric guitar and drums. It’s completely chaotic, but also…uplifting.
“Least he didn’t play Fairytale of New York,” I shrug at my best friend.
Cillian taps his foot, gradually getting faster until the bloody table is rocking underneath him.
Two of his crew are jigging around and dancing in the middle of the pub, jostling into unsuspecting patrons now and again when they stumble off balance.
Nobody says a thing, but there’s plenty of dirty looks making the rounds.
Cillian’s bodyguard sits at a small round table towards the back of the room, a pint in front of him, tapping an irritated finger against the glass.
Looks like someone’s had enough of babysitting duty.
“So, you shitheads gonna help me?” I glance between the lads.
“Si. If we can get the hell out of here. Right fucking now.”.
I laugh at Clarke’s sullen face, watching Cillian, who’s joined the others, sloshing his Guinness over unsuspecting patrons.
“That don’t seem like a guy that’s just lost his brother,” Ezio’s voice is as sour as those shitty apple-flavoured shots you get in nightclubs.
“Yeah. That’s why he’s a lunatic,” I reply, shaking my head.
An ear-piercing shriek has us snapping our heads up—and my jaw dropping.
Baldy’s clutching a sharpened knife in one of his fat hands, and the barmaid’s fucking ponytail in another.
He’s waving it around like a bloody battle trophy.
Meanwhile, the poor girl is bawling her eyes out in a crumpled mess on the floor, grasping at the hair that’s no longer attached to her head.
“What the hell?” Ezio mutters quietly, staring ahead at the fucked-up scene playing out before us.
A guy who’s been observing the whole debacle surges to his feet. His chair clatters to the floor as he squares up to Cillian, red-faced and raging.
“Who the fuck do you think you are?” he roars, stabbing an accusatory finger at the Irishman’s chest. Cillian has his back to us, so it’s difficult to tell what he’s uttering to the dude when he leans in close.
But the guy reels backward, colliding with the table behind him.
He jerks back, pint in hand, and hurls the leftover drink over Cillian’s face.
Audible gasps silence the chatter. For a moment Cillian’s frozen in time, stale alcohol dripping from his hair and clothes.
The only giveaway that he’s silently fuming is the tension coiled in his broad shoulders.
Rolling his head back onto his shoulders, he howls with laughter, an unhinged cackle that echoes off the walls.
Then it stops—abruptly. He plucks a fork from an innocent customer chowing down on their T-bone, and with absolutely no mercy, draws his arm back and rams the steel utensil into the guy’s eyeball.
“We need to go. Now,” I bark over the anguished screams. The guy runs around like a headless chicken.
We hop out of the booth and dash to the door.
“Shouldn’t we be doing something?” Ezio grunts, glancing back over his shoulder. “That’s our turf.”
“No,” Clarke quips, and I’m the first to say how shocked I am. He’s usually brawling for a fight at any chance he gets. “We don’t need to draw anymore fucking attention to ourselves. I’ll ring Scar.”
I dip my head, for once in agreement with him.
“He’s right. They’re already over here sniffing’ around like damn bloodhounds. We need to just get this funeral over with so they can fuck off back home.”