‘I would in my gonkapouch. Jesus. But don’t tell me the Riordans won’t have another crack at us, as soon as they get the chance. If we can’t even hold a family party without them coming after us, we’re not never going to be safe, are we? No, Darragh, it’s them or us. Them or us, boy, I swear on my mother’s grave. And I’ll bet you the razzers won’t come chasing us nearly as hot as you think, so long as we’re doggy wide. They’ll be only too delighted to have somebody clear the streets of Riordans for them, I bet you.’

Thomas O’Flynn was sitting on the banquette by the fake fire at the end of Quinlan’s Bar in Watercourse Road, and his cohorts were sitting hunched on stools all around him like a gathering of Hobbits. The Weavers had not yet reopened, and it would probably stay closed for another three or four days. Muireann was sitting next to Thomas in a short scarlet dress and black pantyhose and his hand was resting high up on her thigh, squeezing it from time to time as if to remind her who she belonged to. He had taken her that morning before she was awake, roughly and quickly, and she was still hurting, but she was doing her best not to show it. She managed a smile now and again, and a short snort of laughter whenever Thomas said anything funny, but any astute observer of human behaviour would have seen that she was not only unamused but secretly raging, and from the way she was shifting around on the banquette, that she was in acute discomfort, too.

‘So – what are we going to do, Tommy?’ asked Breaslain. ‘Go round to Barry’s gaff in the middle of the night and kick in the door? That would be great, wouldn’t it? – to pop them all while they’re lying in their scratchers! “Good morning, Barry-boy! Bang!”’

‘Get real, Brez. He has all the same kind of security around his house as we do. CCTV, motion sensors, alarms, floodlights, you name it. Plus a reinforced front door, I’ll guarantee. Plus he probably has more guns than the fecking Army.

‘No… what we’re going to do is follow his gang one at a time when they leave his house or when they’ve been drinking at The Cotton Ball. Only one at a time. If they’re walking home we’ll jump them. If they’re driving we’ll overtake them and block them off. Then we’ll take them up to Boreen Dearg.’

‘What’s up at Boreen Dearg apart from Sunday lunch on legs?’ asked John Mary John.