He washed his hands clean of blood and made himself a sandwich – a thick doorstep of ham, cheese and pickle. He was starving. He poured a mug of tea and sat at the table, looking through the holiday brochures he had picked up a few days earlier. The boys would love Disney World again, but he fancied something a bit more exotic. The Maldives, maybe. He would book for when the baby was one year old – Ivy could look after it while they lounged in the sun and his Sharon could have a proper rest. She would need it by then, he was sure. From what he had heard, babies were a fucking nuisance for the first twelve months, then they got interesting. He was excited to think he would have a child in the world, his own flesh and blood. His old mum was over the moon; she had never thought it would happen.

He had bought her a little house nearby so she could move down South, or use it for her visits – that was entirely up to her. But he owed her a great deal and he always paid back his debts. Old Annie had really been good to him, and he had had a great childhood because of her constant grafting. OK, she might not have been there when he came home from school, but she had made sure they had a clean house, good food and all the love he could handle. She had tried her best to put him on the straight and narrow and she had given him the work ethic. He hated it when people tried to portray the Irish as feckless fuckers; they were real grafters. They were all over the fucking world because they had hunted the work down. Did that sound like a race of shiftless fuckers?

He finished his tea and carefully washed up the crockery. Then he went down to the cellar and started round two. He was in a good mood; this time tomorrow he would be at home with his Sharon and the boys. He would be especially attentive to her, and he had told Jack to hold off with any more of these little jaunts for a while. That might placate his Sharon. After all, she was having his child, and he didn’t want her or that baby upset.