Tommy to the cashier: who was your man Jimmy Smalls calling? Quick, he says, and he picks the cashier up by the hair and pushes him, face down, into the counter. A car pulls into the garage. They catch light of what’s going on and they’re out of there in seconds. I don’t know, the guy says, I really don’t fucking know. What’s he say on the phone? Tommy says. You were standing next to him the whole time, what did he say? He said nothing, the cashier says to Tommy, he said fuck all, he says. He just picked up the phone, he just dials a number and then he just stands there, listening. Don’t fucking lie to me, Tommy screams at him, but the cashier’s crying, he’s sobbing and he’s begging for his life. I’m not lying, he says, Jimmy said fuck all, he says, he didn’t speak at all, he just stood there, listening, in a trance. There’s somebody on the other end of the phone but I couldn’t hear them speaking. They answered but they didn’t say anything. And that was when he got his arse plugged, he says. That was everything what happened, the wee cashier says. That’s all I know, he says.

Where are the keys to the garage? Tommy says to him. They’re in the till, the guy says, and Tommy gets him to open it for him and he throws them to me. Make sure these keys work and come back and tell me, Tommy says, then he forces the guy back down into the counter and puts a gun to the side of his head. I run out back in a panic.

I can hardly get the key in the lock for jangling but sure enough it works, and I slide the door up, and then I near shite myself. The garage is full of people. Standing there, in silence, staring back at me. It’s a fucking set-up. I pull my gun out and I jump back. I take a shot. Bam: nobody makes a sound. I let off a round. Bam bam bam: no cunt’s moving.

That’s because they’re all fucking mannequins. Fuck me but the garage is full of mannequins all pressed up against each other, and here’s me having to squeeze through. There’s barely any room to get by and their blank eyes are staring, and their cold hands are grabbing, and they smell like they’ve been imprisoned in here for years.

And I thought about all the mannequins that ever existed, all locked up in garages and in cupboards and with their missing arms and legs, and thrown away, in basements all over Northern Ireland, and I saw myself, right then, floating up, over Armagh, and seeing the rooftops lift off and the walls give way without a sound, trapped faces, looking up, without a word, and me, looking down, just the same.