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As a bonus, from my front-row seat on Ciaran’s chest, I got to watch the satisfying spectacle of Lilith Bresson head-butting Ma O’Halloran in the face with all the speed and skill of a council estate scrapper. If I’d had my hands free I would have applauded.
Now it was Kathleen’s turn to bleed. She brought her crabbed hands to her face and screamed, “I’ll fucking kill yees!” and made another blind lunge for Lilith with her flick knife.
“No ye bloody won’t,” a man’s voice stated from behind us, and the auld fella from the bar stepped into the ring. In the daylight I could see the corded muscle that still defined his arms and a bulk that didn’t owe entirely everything to his beer belly ,and I was very glad that he’d decided he was on our side.
He reached out and grabbed Kathleen by the elbow with a hand the size of a dinner plate and stopped her mid-leap, so that she swung and screeched like a recalcitrant toddler in his grip. “Now it’s this lad’s ma’s funeral, missus. Have some fuckin’ respect, eh?” he said solemnly.
Then he looked down at Ciaran and tutted and shook his head. “And as for you son, well, just look at the state of you. Maybe just know when you’re beat, get yer sorry kicked arse up out of that puddle and take yer ma here home.” He nodded at Kathleen as she continued to writhe in a futile attempt to get free.
“Oh yeah? And you’re gonna make me, grandad?” Ciaran tried his very best to look threatening but the effect was spoiled somewhat, probably due to the fact that I’d spread his nose like jam across his smug bastard face and he looked like he’d pissed his stonewash jeans.
“Oh, if I fuckin’ need to lad, yeah I will,” the old guy said. “Don’t you worry about that. But right now I’m hoping you scrape together whatever common sense you have between the pair of you and get gone.”
As Ciaran staggered towards his equally-battered mother a siren whooped in a nearby street, indicating that the Gardaí were on their way, and for the first time in my life I was actually glad to hear the discordant skirl. I was pretty amazed that they’d bothered to attend at all, never mind actually arrive at the scene of the crime in mere minutes.
At the time I’d assumed it was because Feargal had maybe dropped Lilith’s name when he’d dialled 999; estate boozer brawls weren’t known for their Gardaí response, rapid or otherwise.
“For fuck’s sake get up, you great dozy oaf!” Kathleen screeched at her son. She grabbed at his vest and hauled him to his feet. “We’re not even meant to be here!” And with that, mother and son leant on each other and staggered away from the battleground.
I turned to the third member of our tag team. “Thanks for that, yeah?”
He spat loudly into the drain. “Pair of dirty fuckers, both of them. The whole family couldn’t fight clean in a fuckin’ carwash. You alright, lady?” he asked Lilith with genuine concern.
Lilith nodded. “Yeah. Or at least I will be once I’ve cleaned up and found the first aid kit,” she said. “And like Finn said, thank you for your timely intervention.” She wiped the worst of the blood off her right hand on the back of her dress and held it out. “Mister...?”
He looked nonplussed for a second then shook. “Oh. It’s Terence. Terence Edward Ratigan. Me mates call me Ratty.”
She gave him her very best ‘Minor Royalty’ smile and I could swear the old bugger’s knees went on him. “Well it’s very nice to meet you, Ratty. I’m Lilith, and I believe you and Finn have already met?”
“Aye, that we have,” Ratty affirmed. “Good few year ago now. Bought meself a right smart sheepskin coat with the winnings off this lad.” He appraised Lilith. “Don’t suppose you’ve ever fancied goin’ in the ring yerself now, have you? It’s become quite the place for the ladies, these days.”
“Oh, I’m afraid my fighting days are pretty much behind me now,” Lilith said with a rueful little sigh. “I only came out of retirement for this showcase.”
“Ah, that’s a shame,” Ratty said. “I’m in need of a new sheepskin, so.”
Lilith
Two police officers sat across from us at a bar table that was sticky with years’ worth of stale beer and other substances I didn’t even want to think about. It was clear that the Garda Síochána clearly hadn’t wanted to send out its finest to conduct this particular investigation; one appeared to be a prepubescent and pallid twelve year old who hadn’t looked up since he entered the bar three yards behind his colleague, who in turn had all the professionalism and enthusiasm of an obese middle-aged man who’d been dragged away from the television in the middle of his very favourite show. Ed would have eaten them for breakfast.
The younger of the two – Garda McKinnon – kept his head down and made notes as the elder man – Garda Stevenson – continued to lecture us in what he obviously hoped was an authoritarian tone.
“Yeah well, the thing is Miss Bresson -”
“Ms,” I corrected.
“Ah, of course.” He gave a thin smile. “My apologies. Ms Bresson,” he said, lips pursing in poorly-hidden distaste at the word. “I’m afraid it’s going to be your word against theirs from what you’ve said,” he explained, in that slow, slightly raised voice usually reserved for idiots and foreigners. “I’ve been on the radio to my colleagues, and they’ve already had a wee chat with Mrs O’Halloran and her son. We know they can be a bit… loud, but they’re saying that they just called by to pay their respects to the late Mrs Strachan and her family – she was a well-known, er, character, around here, by all accounts – and you and your, em, partner here, Mr Strachan – he is your partner, isn’t he? Not husband? – attacked them.
Also the landlord says the CCTV’s been on the blink for the past few weeks so unfortunately there’s no way to check, but judging by the state of the pair of them it certainly doesn’t look like it was a one-sided attack. Quite cut up, the pair of them were.”
“Goodness, how terribly convenient for you all.” I said, and noticed Garda McKinnon’s hand tremble as he scribbled down a few more words. It was an almost imperceptible tell. Almost...
Oh, I see you, I thought. Of course. Tiny pieces of jigsaw were rapidly beginning to slot into place. Too little too late perhaps, but still of some use if we acted quickly.
“Yeah, I mean we generally chalk incidents like this up to emotions running a touch high with it bein’ a funeral, especially round here - they can often get a bit lively,” Stevenson continued.
“I’d say that having a blade pulled on me was a little more than lively, wouldn’t you?” I asked.
The officer studiously ignored me; he clearly had a script to stick to. “We’ve got your statement and all and we can give you a crime number, but I can’t promise that pressing charges would lead to much of a result for you both.” He almost managed to look me in the eye. “Especially when you think about all the, er, attention something like this might gather for you and your fella here. You know, after all that other unpleasant business.”
