Living Death Read Free Page A

third man was wearing a long grey raincoat, tightly buckled at the waist. He had swept-back grey hair and the ruined good looks of an ageing actor. A cigarette was glowing between his lips, and it waggled up and down when he spoke, as if to accentuate what he was saying. He spoke very softly, with a slurred Sligo accent, so Eoin found it difficult to hear him over the cacophony of barking.
    ‘Sorry if we’ve disturbed you, sir! As you can see, we’re only after taking a few of your liabilities off of your hands, that’s all.’
    ‘Oh, you mean you’ve come here to pikey my dogs?’
    The man’s forehead furrowed into a distinctive V. ‘Ah stop! That’s not a very friendly thing to say, now is it? If I was a pikey, like, I’d be pure offended by that. As it is, I’ll let it pass. How about we say nothing, all right, in case something’s said. But I suggest that you go back indoors and let us get on with our business.’
    The other two men had slammed shut the Transit’s door by now, and come over to join them. Apart from the man in the grey raincoat, none of them spoke, but they didn’t have to. With their hands thrust into the pockets of their windcheaters and their legs braced apart and their heads tilted slightly back, they were making it quite clear to Eoin that if he tried to stop them they would beat him senseless and dance on his face.
    It sounded as if the dogs could sense the increasing tension in the air. Their barking not only continued relentlessly, but it grew sharper and harder, echoing from one side of the kennels to the other. Eoin felt as helpless as they obviously did. What could one man do against five, even if he was armed with a seven-hundred-gram hurley? For all he knew, they could be carrying knives, or even guns.
    In a cabinet in the dining-room he kept an under-and-over shotgun. Why hadn’t he had the sense to bring it out with him? Hadn’t his father told him time and again: ‘Always be ready for the worst that life can throw at you, boy, because it fecking will’? His father had died of lung cancer at the age of fifty-one.
    ‘All right,’ said Eoin. He was trying to sound calm but he felt as if his insides had turned into cold water. ‘It doesn’t look as if I have much choice, does it? But all I ask is, treat these dogs with respect, and take good care of them.’
    The man in the grey raincoat gave him a sideways-sloping smile. ‘You don’t seriously think I’m going to let you go back inside on your own, do you? As if you won’t be ringing the shades as soon as you walk through the door. No – a couple of my pals here will go along with you while the others finish up here, taking what we came for. Oh – and you can drop that camán . Don’t want you taking a swing at them, do we?’
    Eoin hesitated for a moment and then tossed the hurley so that it clattered on to the ground. One of the men stepped forward and picked it up, sloping it over his shoulder as if it were a rifle.
    ‘What are you going to do with them – the dogs?’ Eoin asked the man in the grey raincoat. ‘You’re not going to have them fighting, are you?’
    ‘Oh, will you come round to yourself,’ the man replied. ‘These are fine dogs these are, best quality. They’ll all of them be going to pampered homes, believe me. They’ll probably be eating better munch and sleeping in more comfortable scratchers than you or me ever will.’
    Eoin was tempted to say something like, ‘You won’t get away with this,’ but he knew how futile that would sound, and the reality was that they probably would get away with it. The Garda were tied up with enough serious crime without chasing after dognappers.
    He walked back to the house, with two of the men uncomfortably close beside him, including the man who was carrying his hurley. They followed him inside, and with his voice muffled behind his scarf, one of them said, ‘Just park your arse in the parlour, okay, sham, and don’t be trying anything