Michael Flynn genuinely felt for Christie McCarthy. The man’s anguish was evident and he had every right to feel as he did. He had lost his son and that was a terrible thing for anyone to endure. But all that really mattered in their world was righting a wrong – that was the bottom line. Kelvin had pushed his fucking luck big time, he had taken a dirty great liberty, and he had been punished for it. That was it, as far as Michael was concerned, but he was willing to try to build a few bridges.

‘Look, Christie, I know how you’re feeling, mate, I respect that. But you know, as well as I do, that Kelvin was long overdue for a fucking hammering of some sort.’

Michael waited for a reply. He wanted to give this man a pass; he had no argument with him personally. But Christie’s silence was making it difficult. Well, fuck him! He needed a fucking lesson in etiquette.

‘Do you know what I really think? I think that you should have reined your boy in a long time ago. I mean, I couldn’t believe my fucking ears! He actually pulled a gun on Jeffrey Palmer, in my fucking club! In full view of the paying public, I might fucking add, disrespecting me and my premises.’ Michael was getting even more annoyed now at having to explain himself. ‘Do you honestly think that I should have swallowed my fucking knob? Done nothing? Your son baited that man for ages, he insulted him into the ground, and the only reason Jeffrey Palmer didn’t retaliate and kill the cunt there and then, was because he was on my premises. He knew if he entered into the fray – bearing in mind that he had every right to sort that lairy little cunt out – he would now be in the same condition as your boy: dead as a fucking doornail. I cannot, and will not, allow such behaviour on my premises. I don’t care who it is.’

Christie McCarthy knew that Michael had only done what he would have done himself in the same position. But this was still about his son. As useless as the boy had been, he was his own flesh and blood.

Michael was leaning on his desk, with his arms folded across his chest. He looked every inch the main man; he had something about him that told people he was not to be underestimated. Like Patrick Costello, he had an edge to him. McCarthy had dealt with dangerous men before – it was par for the course in the world they lived in – but, occasionally, the world threw up someone like Michael Flynn or Patrick Costello. They were few and far between, and the fact that they lived by such a completely different code was the reason they were so successful.