Death Sentence by Sheryl Browne Page B

of what might come next.
    ‘I don’t care how you do it,’ Hayes imparted, over his shoulder. ‘Burn your poxy club to the ground if you have to and claim on the insurance. I don’t give a toss. If you want to keep hold of any part of your tackle, sort it.’
    With which Hayes headed towards the exit, cueing his henchmen to follow.
    Neanderthals , Patrick thought bitterly, swiping a trail of sweat from his cheek with the back of his hand. Then he drew his shoulders up, lest anyone notice he was rattled, and headed for the bar. He needed a drink. He needed several.
    ‘Gin,’ he snapped, indicating the barman to get his arse over to him pronto. ‘Make it a large one.’
    ‘Ice and a slice, Mr Sullivan?’ the barman enquired pleasantly.
    ‘No, I do not want ice and a fucking slice! Do I look gay, or what!?’ Patrick glared at the kid, a university grad. God help the state of the country . Patrick eyed the two-fingers of gin he was offered despairingly. The idiot wasn’t even capable of serving up a decent drink.
    ‘I said large, ’ he seethed, slamming the glass back down and turning to walk around the bar. ‘ Christ Al-bloody-mighty , do I have to do everything my …’
    Patrick stopped as he heard a distinct sneer from a table just behind him. Oh, for … His jaw set in a grimace, Patrick eyed the ceiling. Just what he needed. His old man, obviously having decided to stumble in, had witnessed proceedings and was clearly about to revel in his humiliation.
    ‘Patrick.’ His father raised his glass, as Patrick turned to face him. ‘Well done, me boy. Couldn’t have done better meself. Hayes will be quaking in his designer loafers, so he will.’ Taking a drink, his father wiped a hand over his mouth and looked back to Patrick, that same derogatory look in his eye Patrick had suffered since he was knee-high.
    ‘You’d better make that your last.’ Patrick attempted some degree of civility for the sake of paying customers.
    ‘My last, my ever-lovin’ shon, will be when I’ve finished drinking.’ His father slurred, one eye closed and the other unfocused, as he pointed his now empty glass in Patrick’s direction. ‘Meanwhile, it would pay you to concentrate on keeping your balls, yer fucking eejit.’
    ‘You’ve had enough,’ Patrick warned him, seething quietly inside.
    ‘Lucy!’ Ignoring him, his father clicked his fingers and waved his empty bottle, indicating that one of the dancers should bring him another.
    And serve it whilst sitting in his lap, no doubt. Patrick curled a lip, repulsed, as he watched his alcohol-soaked old man openly leering at the girl, who sashayed across willingly enough, bottle in hand and a smile glued to her face. The look in her eyes as she glanced at Patrick, though, told her she didn’t want Michael Sullivan’s sweaty wet paws all over her and his whisky-laden breath in her face. The girls were all much the same to Patrick, dressed in uniform sequined thongs, he couldn’t be arsed to differentiate one from the other, unless they had exceptional ankles, but even he could sympathise.
    ‘Come here, my little temptress.’ His old man slapped his knee, and then reached a hand around the girl, squeezing her backside demonstratively. ‘Dance for me, darlin’,’ he growled. ‘Shove those tempting ripe breasts in me face and let me die a happy man.’
    Patrick watched on, wishing the old bastard would die as he yanked the girl close and buried his face in her cleavage, his hairpiece skewing on his bald head as he did. The drunken old sod was a complete embarrassment. Fury bubbling inside him, Patrick turned back to the bar to down his gin in one.
    He was about to start on another when a crash behind him signalled his old man was on his way out back, stumbling over stools, as per, and cursing liberally as he went.
    Walking back towards Patrick, adjusting her bra-top and looking somewhere between grim and flustered, Lucy eyed him worriedly. ‘He wants me to take him