Free First Death In Dublin City (Thomas Bishop Book 1) by Colm-Christopher Collins Page B

the poorest areas of Dublin had been the cornerstones of culture and community in the city, in the seventies the city had then flooded with drugs, and now poverty in this city held nothing but a bleak and hopeless grey for those who suffered its cold grasp.
    Tommy walked by a burned out car and a crew of hooded kids standing in a circle. Runners, the lot of them. Whenever a pregnant mother or doped out junkie came a knocking, they would give the nod to one of the runners, who, flying up a number of stairs, would let someone higher up the chain know that some vials were needed.
    Tommy was not in the mood for dealing with runners, so he brushed past them and went onto the stairs himself. They called after him, but he ignored them, and none tried to stop him. He heard somebody whisper ‘five oh’ and the others fell silent. Five oh, an American expression for the police. Tommy wondered what it was that made this new crop of inner city gangland criminals so Americanised. Any inner city boy now, instead of becoming the distinctively Irish criminal the previous generation were, was instead walking around with Tupac tattoos and airmax runners. Globalisation affects all parts of society, evidently.
    Up two flights of rusting stairs, and onto an old landing, where there were two men standing. Both were youths a little older than the kids downstairs, and dressed in slightly less shiny clothes.
    Tommy looked at them.
    ‘Sup boss.’ The one of the right said.
    ‘Barber in charge today?’ Asked Tommy.
    ‘You a Garda?’ Asked the one on the left.
    Tommy just rolled his eyes at him.
    ‘Yeah, sure, he’s around today.’ Said the one on the right. He was a giant man, weighing close to twenty stone no doubt, and wearing an old rip off Liverpool jersey.
    ‘Lemme talk to him.’ Said Tommy. Tubby nodded, took out a phone and sent off a text.
    Tommy leaned back against the bars that were last painted in the eighties. The guy on the left, a short, emaciated prick with the look of a junkie; eyed Tommy up. Tommy wasn’t afraid; not that he thought he could take him, there was nothing quite like the aggressiveness of an addict looking for a fix, but clearly he didn’t have too much going on behind his blank, angry, eyes and wouldn’t attack unless his boss ordered him. Tubby, however, seemed to be much more with it. Tommy would have to remember his face for whenever he next popped into the Drugs and Organised Crime Bureau.
    After two minutes, Tubby’s phone buzzed and then he turned it off. He indicated to Tommy to follow him, and walked to the stairs. Up to the fifth floor of the flats, where two Nigerian women were fighting on a balcony over a set of curlers, or so it seemed anyway, while their young children ran in and out of doorways.
    At the end of the hallway there leaned against the wall a figure in a green Celtic hoodie. Even from here, Tommy could tell it was the Barber. Jerry O’Driscoll was his actual name, but his habit of burning the hair of those he found unfavourable had earned him his nickname. He was a short man, with a shaved head tattooed with the name of each of the signatories of the Proclamation; and beneath his eyes were tattooed five names, one for each his children.
    ‘The prodigal detective returns.’ Barber stepped away from the wall and flashed Tommy a smile peppered with golden teeth. So far as Tommy knew, he’d had his jaw shattered when attacked in Mountjoy.
    ‘I don’t feel good about this.’ Said Tommy.
    ‘C’mere to me.’ He said and shrugged his shoulder for Tommy to follow.
    ‘You’re still alive.’ Said Tommy.
    Barber turned around, worried. ‘Why, did you hear something?’
    ‘No, except guys like you, death seems to be an occupational hazard.’ Said Tommy.
    ‘No one’s gotten me yet.’ He said. He was leading Tommy through a dingy apartment, where two young men slept on couches; night dealers, more than likely.
    Then, into the bathroom. There was a bath that had been installed a