Michael gulped his drink, savouring the burn as it hit his belly. He could feel the energy coming back into his body and, swallowing down the rest of the whisky, he placed the glass on the bar gently, before leaning his body over the counter and picking up the whisky bottle. He poured himself out another large measure of Scotch. His back was turned away from Declan, and his voice was rough, as he said disgustedly, ‘Do you know what fucking annoys me more than anything about you, Declan? That you can stand there like the orphan of the fucking storm, all sad-eyed, and ready to take your punishment, yet you know exactly what you did wrong. You know why my fucking wife and daughter were terrorised in their own fucking home. So what I want to know is, why didn’t you think this through before it got out of hand?’ He turned to face Declan, to look him in the eyes.

Declan just shrugged his huge shoulders; he was as bewildered as Michael. ‘I was already well pissed by the time Peter Barker came to see me. I can’t condone my actions. I need a day or two so I can think things through properly. Why do you think I didn’t want the partnership when you offered it to me? I can’t think on my feet. I run the same fucking businesses I did when my brother was in the big seat. I thought I was doing the right thing. I didn’t think of the consequences. I certainly never dreamt the fuckers would go on the trot. Fuck me, Michael, they could barely stand up!’

Michael finished his whisky in one gulp. Then, sighing heavily, he brought the whisky tumbler down on to Declan’s head with all his strength, and began beating the bloodied man viciously and deliberately.

When he was finished, Michael went into the men’s rest room and washed his hands carefully, before tidying himself up as best he could. He left the club quickly; his car and driver had been waiting for him patiently. There were also two of his doormen waiting outside. As arranged, as soon as he drove away, they slipped into the club and began the job of cleaning up the mess that Michael Flynn had left behind him.

Chapter Eighty-Five

Chapter Eighty-Five

Michael had showered, and changed into a pair of black jogging bottoms and a crisp white T-shirt. As he walked across the landing from his bedroom to his daughter’s, he could hear his wife pottering about in the kitchen below. It was a good sound, the sound of a home, of normality.