Patrick Costello was more than game. He always enjoyed listening to the lad’s ideas – Michael Flynn had the knack of sniffing out an earn before anyone else. But, more than that, Patrick Costello genuinely enjoyed his company. ‘Lead the way, my son. I’m up for all that.’

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-One

Declan Costello woke up with a blinding hangover. He opened his eyes warily – the sunlight was already giving him gyp. He squinted his eyes and attempted to look at his watch, but it was a pointless exercise. He brought his right arm as close to his face as possible – all he could see was a blur. His watch was a solid gold Rolex, with a gold face and gold numerals. He could see fuck-all, let alone the time.

He looked around him groggily; he recognised the bedroom at least. It was the boudoir of one Samantha Harker. He had found himself here on more than one occasion and, in his defence, he had never remembered actually arriving. He pulled himself up in bed and, putting the pillows behind his back, he leant into them, using the headboard as a backrest. He could smell himself – a mixture of sweat, alcohol and Samantha Harker. He scrabbled around on the bedside table and, as he knew he would, he found his cigarettes and lighter. He lit a Benson & Hedges, and pulled the smoke into his lungs lazily.

The room was actually very clean. Samantha was a good housekeeper – he remembered that from past experience. Her flat was spotless, and quite well decorated, considering.

She was a nice enough girl and a game bird. Great pair of tits, and not bad-looking. She was very young though.

He felt a sudden flush of shame wash over him – he was old enough to be her father. She was the only girl that made him feel like this. Yet here he was, once more in her bed. He closed his eyes in annoyance.

He could hear her moving about in the kitchen. Her flat was so small, it was like being in a fucking envelope. The bedroom door opened a few minutes later, and Samantha came into the room, smiling that big smile of hers, and bringing him a mug of tea. Her little girl was, as always, hot on her heels. The child was like a miniature of her mum. She had the same blue eyes, the same thick blond hair, and the same wide smile. She stood at the end of the bed, and he could sense her watching him.

‘Here you are, Declan, a nice cup of tea.’

He took the steaming mug of tea carefully. Samantha always acted as if he didn’t owe her anything, and why wouldn’t she? He owed her fuck-all.