Shirley, who really liked Tommy, had always liked him and had been over the moon to climb into his bed, was upset that he was dismissing her like a two-bob tart. Her eyes screwed up and she said, ‘You are a wanker. As for me being ladylike, I’m no more ladylike than Big Briony, as they call her. They also call her the Poison Dwarf, did you know that? What’s the matter, Tommy? Frightened she’ll find out I’ve been here and little Tommy Lane’s been a naughty boy? Scared of her, are you?’

She froze as he yanked her from the bed by her arm. He ran her across the room and into the dressing room where her clothes were neatly folded on a chair.

‘Get dressed and fuck off. As for Briony, you ain’t even fit to walk on the same bit of pavement as her. Now take your stuff, take your big fucking trap, and piss off!’

Shirley sat on a chair naked, and rubbed at her arm. ‘You hurt me!’

Tommy made a tragic face. ‘NO! I never, did I? If you’re not careful I might just tell Briony what I’ve been doing all afternoon. Now if she frightens me, what must that thought do to you, eh?’

He left the room but as he walked down the stairs felt a wave of temper wash over him. So people thought he was scared of Briony, did they? Then he smiled. The Poison Dwarf! Briony would laugh if she heard that one. Collecting Kevin, he left the house, Shirley never once entering his thoughts. Unlike Briony, she was over and done with.

Padraig O’Connor was a thin wiry Irishman with burnished red hair, a red bushy beard, and large rough hands. Not a tall man, only five foot four, he gave the impression of great strength in his compact, tightly muscled body. His deep-set blue eyes had the glint of a man on the verge of religious mania.

Padraig went into the lowest of pubs and drinking establishments, giving out the word of the Lord. He knew his bible backwards and forwards, believing in the pure and simple sanctity of living your life by the word of God, the ten commandments and Leviticus. He drank only water, Adam’s Ale, and ate simple foods. He also worked hard as a coal man, delivering the sacks everywhere, his hands and back ingrained with coal dust, a sign to the world that he toiled hard at good honest work. Drunks, women of the night and local priests ducked into corners and under hedges when they saw him coming. As Father Kennedy had once remarked, the man could make a top of the morning sound like a declaration of war.

Padraig was in The Green Man, his bible open at Leviticus, regaling the rather drunken customers with the Lord’s words on bestiality.