Gun Street Girl by Adrian McKinty Page B

hardly see anything at all.
    I turned left on the North Road, swerving slowly around a band of tinkers going through a skip at the railway bridge and a goat—which may have been with them, or not—happily eating what appeared to be a box of candles.
    Five glum backpackers were standing under the overhang at Carrick train station, no doubt wondering why Lonely Planet had told them to get off the train at this benighted destination.
    I parked the Beemer outside the church hall and sat in the vehicle for a few minutes. The rain pounded off the roof and made a film on the windscreen. It was 6:15 and I was running late.
    â€œFuck it,” I said, then opened the door and ran for the entrance.
    Mrs. Beggs was, apparently, delighted to see me. “So glad you could make it, Mr. Duffy. Here’s your badge.”
    She took my coat and hat and gave me a stick-on badge which declared: “Hello, my name is Sean!”
    I put it on the lapel of my jacket. I could hear music coming from inside the hall and it sounded disconcertingly like Glenn Miller.
    â€œThe crowd’s not all over forty, is it?”
    Mrs. Beggs shook her head. “No, no. Have no fear, there are plenty of women your age, Mr. Duffy, and . . .” she lowered her voice “there are even a few Catholics.”
    â€œThat’s not important, as long as there—”
    â€œYou didn’t come to chit-chat with me. Get in there, Mr. Duffy,” she said, taking me by the arm and leading me into the hall.
    â€œI think I left my cigarette lighter in the car, I have to go—”
    â€œNo you don’t,” she said, opening the door and frog-marching me into the room.
    The church hall had been cleared of chairs and the lights dimmed to suggest intrigue. A table had been set up at one end of the room for soft drinks, and at the other end, a rather elderly DJ was spinning records on a twin deck. The music was indeed Glenn Miller, but I could foresee Acker Bilk and Benny Goodman in the immediate future.
    The crowd was pretty substantial for a wet weeknight. About sixty all together with women representing a hefty majority. It was true that it skewed to an older demographic, but there were at least a dozen women my age or younger. Some people were dancing in a grim Northern Irish way, and off the dance floor there were several intense one-on-one conversations taking place. A large mixed-gender group had gathered at the drinks table, and a party of forlorn single men was pressed against the west wall, huddling in the shadows for their own protection.
    â€œHow does this work?” I hissed at Mrs. Beggs.
    â€œEveryone has a name and everyone’s here for the same reason. You just go and introduce yourself.”
    â€œI really need to get my lighter, I—”
    â€œSay hello to Orla O’Neill. She’d love you. Thirty. Red hair. Divorced. Gorgeous. Worth a fortune. That’s her in the green miniskirt.”
    â€œWhat? Where? Which one is—”
    She gave me another little shove and closed the door behind me.
    â€œIn The Mood” ended and “Moonlight Serenade” began in waltz time. The men and women began pairing off.
    Before I had the opportunity to register the full measure of my panic a tall, brightly dressed woman offered me her hand. Her fingers were powerful, with nails like those of an itinerant sheet metal worker. Her hair was red and her dress had a greenish tinge. Surely this couldn’t be Ms. O’Neill?
    â€œAren’t you going to ask me to dance?” she said.
    â€œI don’t really know how to dance. Not as such. Not formal—”
    â€œA gentleman should know how to dance,” she replied indignantly.
    â€œI never really got around to it.”
    â€œWhat do you do for a living, Sean ?” she asked, reading my name badge.
    â€œI’m a policeman.”
    She pursed her lips. “Ah, well, please excuse me, Sean, I really must find a