Free Serious People by James A. Shea

forgetting Mickey’s breakfast was still on the side.
    “Am I having breakfast today?” Mickey smiled.
    “Sorry, of course, sure…”
    Dawn picked up Mickey’s plate.
    “Hey, It’s OK. I must look pretty damn good though!” Mickey said, tucking into his food.
    “Why don’t you stay home today, Mick?” Dawn said, sitting down opposite him.
    “That dye must be good stuff. I'll have to use it again.”
    Mickey was beginning to think this through when a car’s horn sounded twice outside. In his mind he was more than owed some time off before the morning start; and to say things had slowed down recently was an under statement. But his loyalty to Charlie and Robert did not allow this to linger in his mind for long.
    “That’ll be Seamus. I had better go,” he said, breakfast unfinished.
    “Mickey—really —please stay home today,” Dawn said, almost begging.
    Mickey began to wish he’d used the dye months ago; he had no idea it would have this kind of effect. He hadn’t even known what he was doing when he was using it. It had occurred to him—too late—to read the instructions on the bottle. But he never felt he had the time to do stuff like that. Instead, he just squeezed out most the bottle between his hands and onto his head. If you put more on than you’re meant to, he reckoned, then you probably don’t need to fuck around with keeping it on your bounce for hours on end before washing it out. In any case. It seemed like he had cracked the secret formulae from Dawn’s reaction.
    “I’ll make sure I’m early tonight babe.”
    Mickey gave his wife a wink and walked out. “Oh, and make sure you get some more of that blob in. I think I used most the bottle and I might want to sprinkle a bit more on before the end of the week.”
    Mickey walked out his house and towards Seamus’s Range Rover, which had been bought off one of Payne’s contacts. It was six-months old and top spec, in gleaming white, it was the type of motor you’d see premiership footballers whizzing around in. Mickey didn’t like it.
    He didn’t like it for a couple of reasons. Firstly, this game was about discretion, about flying under the radar. You never know when you might need the benefit of having a car that was difficult to remember. Mickey had never owned a flashy motor; flashy motors were, in the main, for pricks.
    The second reason why Seamus’s motor annoyed him, was that the meathead had no idea he was now into Robert for thousands. The small brained chump had just thought the price he’d paid was a good deal for knowing Robert—it was most his wages for the year. This guy was a complete donut and this car said everything about him.
    As Mickey got in the car he was greeted by Seamus’ loud music. “Jesus, Seamus, do you really need it that loud?”
    “You gotta be seen in a car like this, Mick,” Seamus said, grudgingly turning the stereo down. “I love this car. It’s just me. It just says me everywhere.”
    “I agree.”
    “And you just have to be seen in it!”
    “It’s not being seen, it’s being heard I’m worried about,” Mickey said, turning to Seamus, who was now staring motionless at Mickey’s hair. “What?”
    “Your hair, Mick” Seamus said, still staring.
    The kid was clearly impressed and Mickey didn’t blame him. He only wished he’d been able to see it himself in a mirror and properly take in his new look.
    “You’re wondering how I did it, aren’t you,” Mickey said smiling.
    “Yeah.” Seamus replied, “and why?”.
    “Listen, I know what you’re thinking. I’m a man’s man. Not really the type that would act like a ponce but there comes a time when you need to put a bit of colour back in your mush. But I’ll tell you something. Dawn couldn’t get enough. I had to practically drag myself out of the house today,” Mickey said proudly.
    “Really?” Seamus said.
    “I reckon I must look just how I looked thirty years ago,” Mickey added, putting his hands through his