The only one to hear her over the noise of babbling conversation is Jase, who nods politely.
“Honestly, guys,” Nuala speaks up to be heard, a few of them breaking away and giving her their attention, “this is too much. We can’t thank you enough, honestly.”
“Don’t worry about it, Nuala,” Katie smiles over to her.
The collection of voices overrun the kitchen as Chris dodges past Ritchie and Michelle as they unpeel themselves from the doorway. Ritchie makes a beeline for Jimmy, whilst Michelle haunches down to speak to William, who has plonked himself down on the tiled floor. Turning to Dermott once more, a look of confusion on her face, Nuala sees him look away again shyly.
“Was this your handiwork?”
“Not at all,” Dermott shakes his head, “I just found out from Michelle where the spare key was kept.”
“Then, who?”
Dermott smirks and nods towards Chris, who has slumped back against the washing machine, looking over at Danielle hugging Jase with a satisfied look on his face.
Chapter Sixty-Two:
Crossing the wooden floor and twisting the rusted twin deadbolt locks on the top and bottom of the door, Boyle puts on his deepest frown as he goes to swing it open. Before he can, however, he jumps as the shutters protecting the window on his left make an almighty bang, being followed with jeers from the halfwits outside.
Anger escalating, he pulls open the door, fighting the urge to smirk as he’s greeted with the sound of the shouting and cursing being cut short. 50 or more faces drop when they see him standing over the threshold. Silence. He looks over the collection of men staring at him with a brow raised. Some he knows well. Some, not so much. Obviously heard the commotion and wanted to come and give their two pence worth. A chance for a blowout. Well, they’ll get it soon enough.
He steps forward and, instinctively, the people collected in front of him start to part, making a path for him. They continue to stare after him before he makes it to the edge, seeing Macka lazing against the back wall, smoke in his mouth. Boyle lags his head backwards towards the entrance, making Macka nod in understanding, before tossing the cigarette on the ground and stepping forward to return to work. As he retreats to his car, Boyle hears the excited whispers of the crowd as they start to flock into the pub. O’Carroll and Byrne are still in there having a pint, but he can trust them not to expose any information… Not yet, anyway.
Just as he presses the car keys to open the driver door, he looks up and smirks. Standing just beside his car on the pavement are DI McNally and DS Ferguson, a police car metres behind them on the other side of the road.
“Well, well, well… How may I help you gentlemen?”
“We were just in the neighbourhood,” McNally scowls at him, “were wondering what all the roaring and shouting was about.”
“You can’t come between a man and his pint… Especially not on a Saturday night. Make life easier for yourselves, eh?” Boyle winks, before clicking open his driver’s door.
“Something interesting going on in the Bull’s Horn, was there, Boyle?” Ferguson rounds the back of his car to meet him.
“Nothing specifically, no,” Boyle brings his bottom lip up to below his nose, a look of confusion on his face, “just a bit of political business. Ran on longer than I would’ve liked… Some of them politicians can talk.”
As he falls into his seat, he looks up to see Ferguson glaring in at him.
“What are you up to, Boyle?”
Boyle widens his eyes and smiles, before slamming the door and speeding off towards the direction of Brooke Park, a customary glance in his rear-view mirror to watch the two shrinking figures helplessly looking after him.
Chapter Sixty-Three:
Seeing the two of them in the corner, laughing and touching, it makes her blood boil. She has no reason to be jealous. If anything, it’s her that’s in the wrong. But Steph can’t help it. Lifting the granny’s mug with a smile, she asks if she’d like a top up. The granny taps her on the forearm as confirmation, still engrossed in a story with the lady in the neighbouring settee. Stepping through into the hall, she pushes into the kitchen to see Ritchie looking out into the garden. Smiling at him as he turns towards her, she totters over to the kettle, filling it to the brim before pushing the button.
Waiting for it to boil, she stares at Ritchie’s back. Tense. Uncomfortable. A lot heavier than he used to be. He used to be so fit, infamous on the Gaelic pitch. Oozed confidence. Now, he’s like a completely different person. She’s not sure if he’s even stepped foot in the living room yet. His father’s remains resting inside the coffin in the corner. He’s been looking into this garden all evening, from when the guests started arriving. Barely bothering to greet them. A limp hand offered as a form of acceptance for their condolences.
When a couple whose names she’d forgotten almost instantly after being introduced to them decide to go back into the living room, they find themselves alone. She stares at the kettle, well aware of the age old saying, before turning back to Ritchie.
“How have you been?”
He shrugs. She joins him by the pane of glass, rubbing her shoulder off him playfully.
“Long time, no see. You should come home more often.”
She looks at his side profile. His jaw tightened. Patchy stubble. Eyes blinking rapidly. Lines on his forehead that weren’t there the last time she had been this close to him. His father’s death had taken a massive toll on him, and on his family. She wouldn’t wish it on her worst enemy.
“It’s going to be alright, you know?”
She links arms with him, resting her head on his shoulder. She feels him tense more, but as she pulls him
