tattered twenty-euro banknotes out of his back pocket. ‘How much, Missus?’ He paid me the sixty euro and I went on my way.
I left clear instructions about how to bathe and clean the wound and I didn’t expect to hear any more from them. So I was surprised to see young Johnny sitting outside the surgery wall that evening, carrying a bulky-looking parcel, carelessly wrapped in rough brown paper.
‘How’s Charlo doing?’ I called out, trying not to sound alarmed.
He smile broadly. ‘Shur, he’s aytin’ everythin’ dat’s put in front of ’im. He must ’ave been half-starved with all de poison in ’is blood. Paddy on the green said he’d ’ave been in de knackers’ yard by now if ye hadn’t come out.’ With that, he dropped the parcel into my hands and then quickly disappeared around the corner without looking back.
I was bewildered, not to say a little alarmed, as to what the contents of the parcel might be, but I didn’t get a chance to have a look until later on in the evening, when the rush at the surgery had calmed to a manageable level. Cautiously, I put my hand in the bag and gasped in horror when I realised what it was: a brand new car-radio, freshly ripped out of some other unfortunate’s car, wires still attached. The neighbours in inner-city estates had a great sense of loyalty to their own. Clearly, Johnny’s gang now considered me one of theirs. I found myself in a total quandary. While I didn’t want to accept stolen property, neither did I want to offend Johnny’s sense of loyalty – however misguided. Either way, it was highly unlikely that the owner of this car-radio, among the dozens that would have been stolen that day, would ever be reunited with his or her property. Hurriedly, I stuffed the radio back in its bag and hid it among a pile of junk in a drawer in the surgery. But one problem still remained: how would I ever explain today’s returns in the first meeting scheduled with the accountant next week? And what was the VAT rate on payment by means of stolen car radios?
CHAPTER SIX
BRUNO’S LAST HOURS
‘W e have yer man in the van, luv,’ said the man who had just appeared on the door-step of the surgery.
‘Will ye do ’im in for us?’ added his companion.
I gulped, trying not to appear too taken aback. Looking at the pair of them, I suddenly wished I hadn’t arrived in early, before either Liz or Justin.
‘Yer man?’ I repeated nervously.
‘Yeah, yer man I was tellin’ ye about last night on the phone.’
‘Oh, of course, the old dog,’ I replied, as the memory of the bizarre phone call I had received some hours previously came flooding back.
I had been in a deep sleep when the phone had rung, and I paused just long enough to glance at the clock before pressing the answer button: the digital light flashed 4.38am.
As I held the phone to my ear, all I could hear was loud, thumping, heavy-metal music and the sounds of a party in full swing. Please, please, I thought to myself, let it be a wrong number.
‘Is tha’ de doctor?’ roared a suspiciously high-sounding voice over the background din.
‘Yes,’ I replied, by now getting used to my honorary status. ‘What can I do for you?’ I continued as abruptly as possible in my state of semi-slumber, anticipating a long story.
And a long story it was.
Ten minutes later, I was still being regaled with the story of a stray dog who had been adopted by the local community and now, at sixteen years of age, they decided it was time to have him put to sleep – at 4.38 in the morning.
At least three voices were enthusiastically filling me in on all the sordid details.
‘He’s been around since I got me first moped, Missus. An’ ye wouldn’t wanna see de poor aul’ brute sufferin’, like.’
‘An’ we ’ave the money an all, we had a bit of a whip around for ’im there tonight. So dere’s no problem with tha’ end a things.’
‘It’s just that,’ the initial spokesman was back, a
I left clear instructions about how to bathe and clean the wound and I didn’t expect to hear any more from them. So I was surprised to see young Johnny sitting outside the surgery wall that evening, carrying a bulky-looking parcel, carelessly wrapped in rough brown paper.
‘How’s Charlo doing?’ I called out, trying not to sound alarmed.
He smile broadly. ‘Shur, he’s aytin’ everythin’ dat’s put in front of ’im. He must ’ave been half-starved with all de poison in ’is blood. Paddy on the green said he’d ’ave been in de knackers’ yard by now if ye hadn’t come out.’ With that, he dropped the parcel into my hands and then quickly disappeared around the corner without looking back.
I was bewildered, not to say a little alarmed, as to what the contents of the parcel might be, but I didn’t get a chance to have a look until later on in the evening, when the rush at the surgery had calmed to a manageable level. Cautiously, I put my hand in the bag and gasped in horror when I realised what it was: a brand new car-radio, freshly ripped out of some other unfortunate’s car, wires still attached. The neighbours in inner-city estates had a great sense of loyalty to their own. Clearly, Johnny’s gang now considered me one of theirs. I found myself in a total quandary. While I didn’t want to accept stolen property, neither did I want to offend Johnny’s sense of loyalty – however misguided. Either way, it was highly unlikely that the owner of this car-radio, among the dozens that would have been stolen that day, would ever be reunited with his or her property. Hurriedly, I stuffed the radio back in its bag and hid it among a pile of junk in a drawer in the surgery. But one problem still remained: how would I ever explain today’s returns in the first meeting scheduled with the accountant next week? And what was the VAT rate on payment by means of stolen car radios?
CHAPTER SIX
BRUNO’S LAST HOURS
‘W e have yer man in the van, luv,’ said the man who had just appeared on the door-step of the surgery.
‘Will ye do ’im in for us?’ added his companion.
I gulped, trying not to appear too taken aback. Looking at the pair of them, I suddenly wished I hadn’t arrived in early, before either Liz or Justin.
‘Yer man?’ I repeated nervously.
‘Yeah, yer man I was tellin’ ye about last night on the phone.’
‘Oh, of course, the old dog,’ I replied, as the memory of the bizarre phone call I had received some hours previously came flooding back.
I had been in a deep sleep when the phone had rung, and I paused just long enough to glance at the clock before pressing the answer button: the digital light flashed 4.38am.
As I held the phone to my ear, all I could hear was loud, thumping, heavy-metal music and the sounds of a party in full swing. Please, please, I thought to myself, let it be a wrong number.
‘Is tha’ de doctor?’ roared a suspiciously high-sounding voice over the background din.
‘Yes,’ I replied, by now getting used to my honorary status. ‘What can I do for you?’ I continued as abruptly as possible in my state of semi-slumber, anticipating a long story.
And a long story it was.
Ten minutes later, I was still being regaled with the story of a stray dog who had been adopted by the local community and now, at sixteen years of age, they decided it was time to have him put to sleep – at 4.38 in the morning.
At least three voices were enthusiastically filling me in on all the sordid details.
‘He’s been around since I got me first moped, Missus. An’ ye wouldn’t wanna see de poor aul’ brute sufferin’, like.’
‘An’ we ’ave the money an all, we had a bit of a whip around for ’im there tonight. So dere’s no problem with tha’ end a things.’
‘It’s just that,’ the initial spokesman was back, a
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