“He only means he gets it,” said Murph. “He understands, like. Not as thick as he looks.”

The bearded man’s attention went to the hallway then, and he turned away. Murph elbowed Fanning. “What did I tell you? Didn’t I tell you to keep your trap shut? Didn’t I?”

“He asked me a question.”

“No he didn’t. He gave you notice, that’s what he done.”

“Notice, what notice.”

“You’re on his radar, is what. Don’t be telling people ‘You’re grand.’ Especially him. He runs the thing.”

“I know who he is, you know.”

“It doesn’t matter who he is. This is just something he does. On his own.”

Fanning stretched slowly, to put distance between himself and Murph’s breath. Turning, he saw the bearded man in profile. He was talking quietly to a man with a deeply furrowed forehead and bloodshot eyes.

“He’s one of the Delaneys,” Fanning said, unwinding his stretch.

Murph gave him a scathing look.

“Their pictures are in the papers,” Fanning said. “Newspapers, that is.”

Murph spoke in a low voice, barely moving his lips.

“Christ’s sake. We have serious talking to do after this, I’m telling you.”

Goading Murph had given Fanning a small portion of satisfaction. While Murph took out his cigarettes, Fanning stole another glance at the man Delaney was talking to. He was clean-shaven, in his late twenties Fanning calculated, wearing a newish leather jacket. The furrows on his forehead suggested that listening to Delaney took all his concentration, or patience. He gave curt answers to Delaney, pausing to yawn once. Fanning heard him say something about an Eddsie. It was an odd accent, not quite Dublin-sounding.

Delaney asked him another question. The man answered. Delaney’s head went back, and a look of distaste came to his face. “West Ham?” Fanning heard him say. “What kind of a name is that?”

Smoke from Murph’s freshly lit cigarette washed over Fanning’s face then. As he batted it away, a smell of aftershave came to him in its wake. Who the hell would douse themselves with it, and then show up here?

Delaney and this man were now joined by another man, also in his early twenties. There was a sleepy, morose look to him. His hands hung in the pockets of a plain, zippered jacket. His eyelids slid open and shut to reveal a flat, unfocused gaze. The bored teenager look about a decade later than it should be, Fanning wondered. Probably just stoned. Delaney was staring at him, but the man seemed to be making a point of avoiding eye contact. Delaney glanced at the maroon T-Shirt showing above the zipper, and a sliver of some crest visible, and he turned away.

Murphy’s elbow was sharper than it needed to be.

“Cut the gawking.”

“What colour’s the West Ham jersey?”

“The what? West Ham what?”

“The football team.”

“Christ, I don’t know, do I.”

Another volley of cigarette smoke came his way from Murph.

“Well, who is that guy?” Fanning asked.

“What guy? I don’t know. And quit asking.”

“He said something about Eddsie.”

“Who did?”

Fanning saw that he had Murph’s interest now.

“That guy, the leather jacket there. And his mate, the dopey-looking one. Who’s Eddsie?”

Murph stepped in close and glared at him.

“When we get out of here…”

He waited for Fanning to meet his eyes, and jabbed him in the chest.

“This can’t be going on, you hear? You’re going to get us into trouble if you can’t keep that mouth of yours shut.”

“It’s just a question. After all I’m paying, right?”

“It’s not about the money. This is my call here. I told you already.”

The man said something into his mobile and handed it to Delaney. Delaney held it to his ear, and listened. He nodded slowly several times, said something and handed it back. He looked uncertainly at the two men again and then ushered them by with an open palm. Then he walked back to face the groups, and he waited. Fanning saw him glance several times at the two men, now settling themselves into the small crowd.

“Ready when yous are,” Delaney called out then.

Fanning studied the group of men congregating at the far end of the cage. He saw corners and sections of banknotes in several hands. The men shuffled again and the talk subsided.

“Them tinkers have plenty of money, I tell you,” Murphy said.

“Get yourselves in order,” said Delaney. “‘When the cage is set, that’s it as regards to bets. Rules is rules.”

Fanning had no idea what breed of dog was now walking by the gate of the enclosure. The dog — mastiff, bulldog — jerked its head constantly as if it were having fits, straining and lurching clumsily at the end of its leash. Tony didn’t glance up from the dog once.

The dog stopped pulling then, and it lifted a leg. Murph nudged Fanning.

“Marking the place,” he said. “That’s what that is.”

Fanning watched the dog being led back to the hallway.

“Territorial, that’s what that was. Did you know that?”

Fanning noticed that Delaney was again eyeing the two men he had spoken to earlier. The second of the two had taken out a flask. He took a drink from it, and passed it to the other. As he let back his head, the man stared back at Delaney. It was Delaney who looked away first.

“Can anyone come to this?” Fanning asked Murph.

“Are you joking me,” Murph replied with a sneer. “You know what I had to do to get you in here? This is strictly invitation only.”

Fanning looked over at the mismatched pair again. The one in the suit kept his gaze on the cage, but Fanning was certain that he had everything he wanted to notice in his peripheral vision.

“Invitation only,” he repeated back to Murph.

“Didn’t I just say that? You can’t just walk in. No way.”

“People come a long way for this,” he said to Murph. “Do they?”

“I suppose.”

“England, maybe?”

Murph had been rooting in his pocket for something. He stopped.

“England? Why are you asking me that?”

Fanning nodded toward the two men.

“You are so fu- so nosy, you’ll get us both- Look, here’s Tony’s.”

As quickly as Murph had turned angry, his expression had changed.

“Tony’s not a man to bet against,” he murmured.

Something in Murph’s tone made Fanning look over. A blank expression had taken over Murph’s face now, Fanning noticed. Mister Expert himself couldn’t hide his own nervous anticipation of the fight to come.

The second dog looked like a terrier of some kind. It had no ears. It walked with a more jerky intensity than the first, growling low in its throat, and straining to get to the small pool of piss. The man pulling it back kept talking to it. Definitely a tinker, Fanning concluded.

“Wouldn’t be here if there wasn’t something to him,” Murph said.

“But he’s been hurt,” said Fanning. “Look at his mouth.”

“No he’s not. Don’t be stupid.”

“That’s blood there.”

“So?”

“He had another fight earlier?”

“Listen,” said Murph, dipping his head close. The scorn had returned to his voice. “Question for you. Where do

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