hard-on.’
‘I’m a loving brother.’
‘That’s good. Now let’s talk about you.’
Murphy sucks down another oyster. He offers one to Sami, who’d rather eat cold snot.
‘I heard about you, Mr Macbeth. I hear you’re a talent.’
‘Me? No.’
Murphy drizzles lemon juice on an oyster and gives the pepper mill a twist. ‘Dessie has given me the skinny on the Hampstead job. Very impressive.’
Dessie must be the other guy at the table. Dessie Fraser. ‘The Dobermann’. Sami remembers a story about Dessie, who used to be in the army, stationed in Northern Ireland. He was there when the IRA killed Earl Mountbatten by planting a bomb on his boat in County Sligo. Two more bombs went off that day, but nobody remembers them because old man Mountbatten made all the headlines.
One of them was detonated beside a road in County Down just as a Bedford drove by with Dessie Fraser and a load of Paras in back. A second bomb was timed to go off as people tried to help the wounded. A dozen soldiers died. Dessie survived.
A week later, dressed in uniform, Dessie walked into a notorious IRA bar in the Newry and ordered a beer. Waited. Not for long. He left three people near death, tore the place up and the COs needed teargas to get him out. Dessie was dishonourably discharged. Prematurely ejected. Returned to civilian life even less civilised than before he signed up.
Clearly he doesn’t bear a grudge against Paddies, thinks Sami, glancing at Murphy.
‘Don’t believe everything you’ve heard about me, Mr Murphy. If I was so talented, I wouldn’t have got caught.’
‘You were unlucky,’ says Murphy.
Tell me about it, thinks Sami.
‘Modest, too, I like that in a young man, Mr Macbeth. You’re not some cocky little gobshite who thinks he’s seen it all. And you’re not a flash prick like Toby Streak, who buys himself a sports car and rubs the law’s nose in his success. You’re old school. A skilled technician. An artist. I like surrounding myself with talented people; people who use their god-given skills. You know what I’m saying, son?’
The answer is no, but Sami doesn’t utter it out loud.
‘You’re a quiet achiever. That’s why none of us had ever heard of you until the Hampstead job. You kept a low profile. Used your discretion.’
What the fuck is he talking about, thinks Sami.
‘I could use someone gifted like you,’ says Murphy. ‘Someone who thinks on his feet, someone flexible, someone who can open things.’
‘You got the wrong guy,’ says Sami, feeling the conversation has taken a wrong turn. ‘I just want to find my sister and get my shit together in one pile.’
Murphy slathers butter on one half of a torn bread roll.
‘You work alone, I understand that, but I could open up whole new horizons.’
‘It’s not that,’ says Sami. ‘I’m going to concentrate on my music.’
‘Come again?’
‘I play guitar. I’m a musician.’
Murphy has stopped chewing. ‘You taking the piss, son?’
Sami realises his mistake. ‘No, no, I’m just thinking, given what’s happened, that it might be best to change my career. I thought I might concentrate on my music, you know.’
Murphy gives him the pointy finger. ‘You’re planning something, aren’t you? The big score.’
‘No, sir.’
‘Nobody fucking retires in this business unless they’re planning a see-you-later job.’
‘It’s not about money.’
‘It’s always about fucking money. You want to contemplate retirement - you do it while you’re tossing champagne bottles off the back of your yacht or sipping sangria in a Spanish villa.’
‘I’m not planning anything,’ says Sami.
Murphy looks at him dubiously, wondering if he’s lost his bottle, or worse, gone over to the other side.
‘How old are you, son?’
‘Twenty-seven.’
‘How much have you got in your pocket?’
Sami shrugs.
‘You’re potless, aren’t you?’ Murphy pushes back his chair. ‘Poverty isn’t freedom. Look at the
‘I’m a loving brother.’
‘That’s good. Now let’s talk about you.’
Murphy sucks down another oyster. He offers one to Sami, who’d rather eat cold snot.
‘I heard about you, Mr Macbeth. I hear you’re a talent.’
‘Me? No.’
Murphy drizzles lemon juice on an oyster and gives the pepper mill a twist. ‘Dessie has given me the skinny on the Hampstead job. Very impressive.’
Dessie must be the other guy at the table. Dessie Fraser. ‘The Dobermann’. Sami remembers a story about Dessie, who used to be in the army, stationed in Northern Ireland. He was there when the IRA killed Earl Mountbatten by planting a bomb on his boat in County Sligo. Two more bombs went off that day, but nobody remembers them because old man Mountbatten made all the headlines.
One of them was detonated beside a road in County Down just as a Bedford drove by with Dessie Fraser and a load of Paras in back. A second bomb was timed to go off as people tried to help the wounded. A dozen soldiers died. Dessie survived.
A week later, dressed in uniform, Dessie walked into a notorious IRA bar in the Newry and ordered a beer. Waited. Not for long. He left three people near death, tore the place up and the COs needed teargas to get him out. Dessie was dishonourably discharged. Prematurely ejected. Returned to civilian life even less civilised than before he signed up.
Clearly he doesn’t bear a grudge against Paddies, thinks Sami, glancing at Murphy.
‘Don’t believe everything you’ve heard about me, Mr Murphy. If I was so talented, I wouldn’t have got caught.’
‘You were unlucky,’ says Murphy.
Tell me about it, thinks Sami.
‘Modest, too, I like that in a young man, Mr Macbeth. You’re not some cocky little gobshite who thinks he’s seen it all. And you’re not a flash prick like Toby Streak, who buys himself a sports car and rubs the law’s nose in his success. You’re old school. A skilled technician. An artist. I like surrounding myself with talented people; people who use their god-given skills. You know what I’m saying, son?’
The answer is no, but Sami doesn’t utter it out loud.
‘You’re a quiet achiever. That’s why none of us had ever heard of you until the Hampstead job. You kept a low profile. Used your discretion.’
What the fuck is he talking about, thinks Sami.
‘I could use someone gifted like you,’ says Murphy. ‘Someone who thinks on his feet, someone flexible, someone who can open things.’
‘You got the wrong guy,’ says Sami, feeling the conversation has taken a wrong turn. ‘I just want to find my sister and get my shit together in one pile.’
Murphy slathers butter on one half of a torn bread roll.
‘You work alone, I understand that, but I could open up whole new horizons.’
‘It’s not that,’ says Sami. ‘I’m going to concentrate on my music.’
‘Come again?’
‘I play guitar. I’m a musician.’
Murphy has stopped chewing. ‘You taking the piss, son?’
Sami realises his mistake. ‘No, no, I’m just thinking, given what’s happened, that it might be best to change my career. I thought I might concentrate on my music, you know.’
Murphy gives him the pointy finger. ‘You’re planning something, aren’t you? The big score.’
‘No, sir.’
‘Nobody fucking retires in this business unless they’re planning a see-you-later job.’
‘It’s not about money.’
‘It’s always about fucking money. You want to contemplate retirement - you do it while you’re tossing champagne bottles off the back of your yacht or sipping sangria in a Spanish villa.’
‘I’m not planning anything,’ says Sami.
Murphy looks at him dubiously, wondering if he’s lost his bottle, or worse, gone over to the other side.
‘How old are you, son?’
‘Twenty-seven.’
‘How much have you got in your pocket?’
Sami shrugs.
‘You’re potless, aren’t you?’ Murphy pushes back his chair. ‘Poverty isn’t freedom. Look at the
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