But it means something to Irish Mike. He quits hugging his new number two and walks towards me with a face like thunder.

‘What did you say?’

‘Ballyvaloo,’ I repeat, spitting blood on my shirt. ‘What the fuck is a ballyvaloo?’ wonders Calvin.

I rub my tender jaw. ‘Not what, where.’

Mike raises his foot to stomp on me, then thinks better of it.

‘Tell me what you’ve done. Tell me!’

‘Nothing. Not yet.’

Mike is a reasonably smart guy. It doesn’t take him long to make the leap.

‘Let me guess: if I kill you, then my mother is murdered, blah blah blah. You’re bluffing, McEvoy. You haven’t set anything up. You looked me up on the internet and found that I bought my dear mother a retirement cottage in Ireland. Period. Shoot the fucker, Calvin.’

I stare Calvin down. ‘Pull that trigger and Mummy is dead.’

Calvin is conflicted. Do what the boss says, or possibly be indirectly responsible for killing the boss’s mother.

‘One phone call, Mike. Then do what you like. Look in my eyes and tell me I’m lying.’

It’s a stupid line, but at this moment I am as serious as a shattered kneecap or a bullet in the arse. Mike glares into my eyes, snuffling like a hungry dog, and apparently finds some truth in there.

‘One call, McEvoy. If you have harmed my mother . . . if you have so much as disturbed her supper . . .’

If I have to endure one more diatribe.

‘Yeah yeah, give me my phone.’

Irish Mike tosses me my phone, which is actually Barrett’s phone. It takes me three attempts to get the number in. Tiny buttons, big blood-slicked fingers, not a good combination.

‘It’s international,’ I say, trying to sound conversational. ‘So I don’t want to stay on too long.’

Mike’s stare could strip paint. ‘Put it on speaker, shithead. For all I know, you could be calling up your bookie.’

Fair point. I find the speaker button and twist my little finger into it. A shrill double brrrrp blasts from the phone.

‘Weird ring,’ says Zeb, now totally in the Paramol’s clutches. ‘It’s like brrrrp and then another one exactly the same.’

It’s true. International ring tones can be surprising.

Shattered Kneecap is whining, so Mike has Butt Shot drag him out back. The tension levels in the room drop instantly. They go right back up again when the phone is answered by a gruff Irish voice.

‘Aye. Who is it?’

Real Irish. From the heart of Belfast. An accent to make the hardest hard man long for a mother’s bosom to nuzzle.

‘Yeah. Corporal. It’s me, Dan.’

‘Sergeant McEvoy. Okay to drop the hammer?’

‘No. Negative, Corporal. Just confirm your position.’

‘Christ, Sarge. I already popped the old dear, and a few of the cousins too.’

‘Bastard,’ howls Irish Mike. ‘Bastaard.’