Spotty Gun-less answered.

‘He’s in the toilet having a shite, if you must know. He’s always in the toilet, isn’t he, Patrick?’

Spotty Gun spoke across him to Spotty Gun-less.

‘You fuck up as well dopey, and it’s just as well it doesn’t matter that this fucker knows my name, otherwise I would have blown your knees off two seconds ago, Ciaran.’

Neither Spotty spoke again. He heard the upstairs toilet flush.

It was no surprise to Cormac when he strode through the door. It was still a shock to see him. As the years passed, Cormac began to allow himself the indulgence that he would never again cross paths with him. In the early days after he left Ireland, he was tormented with the fear that this day would eventually come. On more than one occasion, Cormac was convinced he’d seen him lurking in the shadows. He would look up to search for him, but he was always gone again. He’d been the cause of endless nights of torment, both in his nightmares and the terror-filled darkness that followed them. In recent years, the nightmares ceased, but he never completely got over the sensation that he was always a presence in his life. He’d just learned to live with the gentle uneasiness those feelings caused him. They were the background hum to his daily existence. No, it was no surprise to see him stride past his head and position himself behind the kitchen table. It was most definitely still a shock.

He retained the handsome features that made him the envy of the boys and the subject of nudges from the girls at school. He was tall, with thick, jet-black hair, now greying a little at the edges. He possessed high cheekbones that any aspiring young model would pay money to replicate. His eyes were a shade of blue so vivid they looked unnatural, as if he’d placed blue lenses in them, or dyed them for effect. His only flaw as a boy had been the explosion of teenage acne which left its still-visible mark on his now slightly fuller jowls. Three things struck Cormac as he sat facing him. He looked like he occupied a world without colour. His clothes were predominantly black. Black boots, black jeans, black shirt, grey T-shirt, and long black leather trench coat - not exactly classic summer mood-lifting shades. His grey pallor indicated a lifetime of careless living and his skin glistened with a thin film that he wore like a mask. By far the most striking feature of his appearance was his eyes. They were the same deep blue colour, but they were changed completely. They had once been his most attractive feature, but now appeared to be vibrating in their sockets, as if at any moment, they’d burst out of their uncomfortable, tormented prison. At this point, they were fixed firmly on Cormac. The silence sent the first trickle slowly down the inside of Cormac’s shirt.

He stood up and strolled around the kitchen table and perched himself directly above Cormac’s head. He clasped his hands tightly in front of him, as if he didn’t trust them to hang loosely by his side. He smelled of chemicals and poor hygiene. The trickle that was becoming a river forced Cormac to speak.