“Shut your mouth,” Murph growled, his eyes glittering with anger. Somewhere Fanning felt pleased to have provoked him so.
“Let go of me,” he said.
Murph loosened his grip, but didn’t move back.
“Where do you think you are? This isn’t a joke, you know. It isn’t one of your film things. This is the real thing here, isn’t it. And these are very serious people.”
Somebody roared nearby. Murphy stepped back and turned back to the fight again.
Blood whipped into the air in long strings that broke before falling to the floor. The terrier-cross was being heaved side to side but Fanning saw that it was the terrier-cross that had a grip on the bulldog’s head.
The bulldog thrashed and reared, and then dove to the floor as though burrowing into it.
“No way,” Murphy said. “He’s got him, he’s got his eye out. Did you see it?”
The bulldog jerked his head up, tossing blood, and got one paw over the terrier-cross’s neck, but his head was pulled back down to the floor again. The terrier-cross began to tug harder. Together the two lurched across the floor until they hit the side of the cage again. That was when the bulldog pulled at the terrier-cross’s leg, clamping it and pulling back. Their frantic twisting slowed.
“He won’t let go of the head,” Murphy said. “Even if the other one…”
The crack of bone breaking brought groans from several of the men. The terrier-cross leaned in as his leg snapped but he kept his grip. Fanning shuddered and turned away, but the noise and the smells rushed in on him again. He glanced over at someone who was beginning a chant. It was that dopey-looking sidekick of the man in the leather jacket. The booze, or whatever he was on, was working now. His eyes were shining and he beat his arms in the air to keep time with the chant.
“Finish it! Finish it!”
Definitely English, Fanning was sure now. The zipper had slid down. Sure enough, it was a football shirt. The crest was blue, with two hammers crossed on a shield. Other voices began to join in. Light-headed now, he heard Murph’s yell as though from a distance.
“He did it, he did it! Jesus, he did it! Unbelievable!”
The bulldog’s fur was wet halfway down its back, and the side of its face was a mass of gaping flesh. His upper and lower teeth showed plainly, fixed on the cross-terrier’s throat. A weak fountain of blood spouted near where he worked at the throat. The terrier-cross’s feet slowed even more until one came to rest on the bulldog’s foreleg.
“Choked the frigging life out of him,” said Murphy. “Absolutely unbelievable!”
Tony was walking slowly into the arena, talking. The Tinker stepped in too and took an awkward step to avoid a gout of blood.
The bulldog was still gnawing on the terrier-cross’s throat. Every few moments, it gave a hard, tearing twist. The terrier-cross’s legs moved again. Tony entered the cage after the Tinker, both holding basins and dripping sponges. Tony went down on one knee, talking to his dog. The bulldog’s head turned a little but his jaws stayed shut. The Tinker bent over and looked at his terrier-cross and frowned. Tony said something to him but the Tinker didn’t answer. Instead he stepped around to get a different view. There was blood spreading beneath the terrier- cross now.
Murph’s voice seemed to come from faraway.
“You look like shite. Better sit down.”
Fanning realized that the shouting had stopped.
“I’ve got to get out of here.”
Murphy blocked him.
“Whoa, there. You can’t just walk out. We have a bet to collect.”
“You get it. I’ve got to go.”
“Wait,” Murph grunted, grabbing Fanning’s arm. “People are looking at you! Look, look — this is the finish. You’ve got to see this, you’ve got to.”
Fanning saw the Tinker shake his head once and look away. Tony glanced at the spectators, and at Delaney, and then he reached into his jacket.
Fanning had seen pistols on sets before, those replicas on the set for Terrible Beauty last year, the heavy Parabellums used back in the early 1900s.
Tony’s pistol was small enough to cover with a spread hand. That was what he did at first and then he passed it to his other hand. In a second it was inches from the terrier-cross’s head, and Tony’s thumb was on the hammer. He seemed to search for a spot where the dog’s neck met his skull. The dog made a feeble twist, and when it stopped, Tony pulled the trigger.
“Jesus Christ,” Fanning said.
There were starbursts in front of his eyes now. He turned, lunged, pushing away Murph’s arm. Murphy grabbed at him again, but he had pulled away. He aimed for the doorway, tensed for another shot. The door was cool on his palms, and he shoved at it hard.
There was cigar smoke here. The door to the laneway was closed. Jacko turned to him.
“I need my mobile back, I’m going.”
“Hold your horses,” Jacko said.
He didn’t want to look at Jacko’s face.
“The Nokia one there, yes, that one.”
Jacko took his time sliding a bolt and pulling the door open a little. “Wait, I said,” Jacko told him. “Are you deaf or what?”
Fanning pulled the closing door and yanked on it, knocking Jacko off balance. He stepped into the yard and began a fast walk toward the cars. The door was closed hard behind him.
The damp air felt almost greasy, but Fanning took in deep, hungry breaths. He remembered the turns that Murph had taken, the bus stop, the passing traffic. He’d even phone a taxi.
“Hey, hey, hey!”
He didn’t need to turn to know it was Murphy’s running footsteps.
“Hey! Stop! Stop right there! You don’t just do that!”
Murphy skipped in front of him and began walking sideways, his chest heaving.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“I’m doing what I need to do. Right now I want to be on my own.”
“No, no, no! We’re a team here, pal. Remember? You go with me, you get what you want, I bring you to the next gig.”
They passed the parked cars. A lorry drove by on the road outside.
“There is no next gig,” said Fanning.
Murphy got in front of him.
“What are you talking about?”
“What I said. There’s no more gigs.”
He tried to get around Murph, but his feints were matched. He stopped.
“We have a week’s worth of places to do yet!”
Murph began counting on his fingers.
“The pool club yesterday, Alfie’s. There’s the Big O in Clondalkin, you see them fencing stuff, remember? Then Mickser, the garage? The piranhas, the one-hour jobs?”
“We can talk later, I have to go.”
“Hop in the car, we’ll talk on the way then.”
“I need to be on my own.”
“What ‘on my own’? Look, I worked on this thing here.”
“I know. I know.”
“You don’t know, you know? Do you know how much I had to do to get us in there? You have no clue. No way you’d get near any of this if it wasn’t for me.”
“Tomorrow.”
“Screw tomorrow. I have it set up, and we’re going. We have to go.”
“Aren’t you forgetting something? I’m the one decides. I’m the one paying.”
