Free City of Bohane: A Novel by Kevin Barry

effort seemed to calm him some, and he set to the S’town prowl and the night’s business.
    ‘Word off the ’bino?’
    ‘Word is – Cantillon.’
    ‘Tonight?’
    ‘Word.’
    ‘Let’s do it then. There any sign o’ the fishmonger, Fuck?’
    Oh and indeed the unfortunate Deccie Cantillon had chosen the wrong evening for an S’town crawl. Not bad enough he was doing jigger with the missus of his own cuz – misfortunate Ger Reid, master butcher – but he was bothering Smoketown tush too.
    ‘On a fanny crawl, is he?’ Wolfie said.
    ‘He be at the pay-for tush an’ all,’ Fucker confirmed.
    Angelina dragged on the leash, and the boys followed, and soon enough Cantillon was made out in the S’town haze.
    A whippety cratur, Cantillon, with mackerel scales all over his hands, in his forties, sharp-featured, a card player, looked after hissel’, a sculpted Frenchie-looking nose just built for a tush-chaser, the thick hair slathered back with a pawload of perfumed gunk, top five buttons of a purple dress shirt open to the night even though it was deep end of October in Bohane, the west’s evil winter looming.
    Deccie followed his pecker around the narrow streets.
    Angelina and the boys followed Deccie.
    Anything aged fourteen to sixty-eight took the rake of his glance. Ankles to nape, he sized ’em up. Laid the gamey eye on. Nearly hop up on that, he thought. Nearly give that an auld lash of the baste, he thought. Nearly ate me dinner offa that, he thought. Oh, a rabid tush patrol he was on, with the peepers out on stalks, looking left, looking right, looking bang ahead, but … ah.
    He didn’t look behind him, did he?
    No.
    ‘Full whack on the fishmonger is the ’bino’s word,’ Fucker said.
    ‘ Full whack?’
    ‘He been messin’ with a missus, ain’t he?’
    ‘Long Fella don’t like that.’
    ‘He sure don’t, Wolf.’
    They ghosted through the Smoketown crowds and kept just a short ways back from their prey.
    They knew to wait on the moment.
    The fishmonger slithered into a shotbar.
    He schlepped back a couple of mulekickers and tried to paw the plastik bazookas off the Ukrainer barkeep.
    All the while he was watched from the street.
    Wolfie had by this stage a punnet of fried chicken on the go and he offered Fucker a drumstick and Fucker took it and sucked it clean in one and tossed the bone and offered his greased fingers then to Angelina, who cleaned them good.
    ‘I worry ’bout you an’ that dog sometimes,’ said Wolfie.
    Fucker shrugged; Angelina drooled.
    And Cantillon rode a string of dives but he bought nowhere, he was looking for the good price, and at length, as the boys and the dog trailed him, he hit towards the dune end.
    Now the dune end of Smoketown is the cheaper line. There you will find a very low class of customer. The worst of the slagshops and the most insalubrious needle galleries are out there. Weird atmosphere on account of the system of dunes that rise just beyond and give the name to it. A spooky place that dune reef. Haunted by ferocious pikeys it is – their fires burn against the black night; sand-pikeys we call ’em – and the sea withers on, always and forever, insanely.
    Fishmonger took a turn down an empty side street.
    Bad move.
    Suddenly, silently, Wolfie Stanners was at his side.
    So sweetly:
    ‘A word, Mr Cantillon?’
    And yes there was Fucker Burke the other side of him.
    All jaunty:
    ‘Howya, Dec?’
    And there was Angelina with a spill of happy drool falling.
    Steered him down a tight alleyway, the boys, and a sea of rats parted underfoot.
    Electric bristling of them.
    Parting of the grey sea.
    Angie yapped at the rats and was shushed by Fucker. Gently the boys arranged the man against a gable end.
    ‘This about, lads?’
    Fair play he even managed to keep the quake of fear from his voice. For all the good it did him. Wolfie took a wee lep off the dancers and was airborne, just briefly, but long enough to plant a perfect butt on the bridge of