Chapter 3

THREE

Tony Keegan opened the door and felt his jaw drop as he tilted his head to one side.

His one-time best friend, Conor Dowling, was standing on the doorstep. Shit. He gathered his wits quickly and arranged his face into a forced smile.

‘Hello, bud. Didn’t know you were out.’

‘You’d have tidied up a bit better and locked the door if you’d realised, is that it?’

‘What are you on about?’ But Tony knew all too well what Conor was referring to. ‘Thought you had another year to serve.’

‘See what thought did to that numbskull brain of yours.’

Tony felt himself being slapped back against the hall wall as Conor pushed past him.

‘Home alone?’ Conor asked.

Closing the front door, Tony followed the tall, skinny figure into the kitchen. A lot had happened in the last ten years that Conor didn’t know about. And Tony wasn’t at all sure he should tell him.

Conor had opened the fridge and was bent over, hands inside, pulling out packets of cheese and ham.

‘Got any bread? I’m starving.’ He slammed the fridge shut with his booted foot and stacked the food on the table.

Before Tony could move an inch, Conor had found the bread and taken a knife from the drawer. He flicked the lid off a tub of Flora and began spreading, slamming cheese on the thick buttered slices. When he seemed happy with his work, he kicked out a chair, sat down and began to eat.

Tony didn’t know what to do, so he sat down too. ‘Good behaviour, was it?’ he said.

‘No. I sliced the governor’s throat and escaped.’ Conor laughed, his mouth wide open, cheese and bread stuck to his teeth.

‘Don’t be messing with me.’ Tony noticed that his friend’s eyes were not laughing, so he picked up a crust from the table and began to chew. When he could no longer hold Conor’s cold stare, he dropped his gaze to his buttery fingers.

‘Messing?’ Still Conor wasn’t laughing. ‘Thought you knew me better than that.’

Tony glanced up cautiously and almost recoiled at the hardness of Conor’s eyes boring into him. He knew instantly that his friend had changed. Prison would do that to you, he supposed. Not that he’d ever been inside himself. He’d cleaned up his act after Conor had been convicted. Now that he was out, he’d have to be wary once again, and watch his back.

‘You’re my friend, Conor. Course I know you.’ He put down the half-eaten crust. ‘What are you going to do with yourself?’

He held his breath as Conor wiped his hands on the white lace tablecloth. For God’s sake! It was the good one. The cloth his gran had brought home for his mother from Spain, like a million years ago. And now Mam, Dad and Gran were all pushing up daisies. So it shouldn’t matter. But it did.

Sniffing loudly, Conor said, ‘I have plans. But first you have to tell me why you were putting your mucky paws all over my workshop.’

‘What workshop?’

‘My shed. In my garden.’

‘It’s your mother’s garden.’

The hand grabbed the collar of Tony’s T-shirt before he could defend himself. He was dragged across the table, clutching at the Spanish heirloom as butter, bread and knife hit the floor.

‘Tony, don’t act like a dimwit with me. What were you doing in my workshop?’

‘I … I …’

‘What?’

‘C-can’t b-breathe.’

As Conor let go and pushed him away, Tony tried to come up with a decent excuse, but nothing was anywhere near as good as the truth, and he definitely couldn’t tell him that.

Swallowing loudly, he ran his hand over his throbbing throat and coughed. ‘I was bored, so I asked your mother if I could do some work in your shed … your workshop. She said she didn’t mind. Just asked me to put something in the microwave for her and take out the bins and stuff.’

‘What work?’

‘You know, trying to make things, the way you used to do. But I’m useless at it. I was only fiddling around.’

‘Well there are some tools missing.’

‘I took nothing.’

‘You didn’t lock the place.’

Digging his greasy hand into his jeans, Tony said, ‘Sorry. I must have left in a hurry.’

‘Nothing in this world could make you hurry.’

He felt his flabby cheeks flush, and put a self-conscious hand on his protruding belly, trying unsuccessfully to hold it in. Smiling weakly, he changed the subject in an attempt to mollify his friend. ‘I’m glad you’re back, Conor.’

Conor was already out in the hallway. ‘I’m not one bit glad to be back.’

‘See you later then? Maybe?’

But Tony was talking to the slammed door.