Death down the lane

 

The weather is wonderful and Frane escapes to his allotment. No small talk and chatting with the others today. Hiding away in the shed with the paper and some proper head down time. That was the plan anyway. A copy of Mr Murdoch’s Times under his arm and a tin of cafe creme cigars. A flask of coffee and a half bottle of the cheapest whisky in the newsagent. 

No sooner has he sat down on an old bucket and pushchair combo than his mobile goes off. The name TERRY HESTON comes up in bright neon lettering. 

Frane and Heston were studying their crim shots and biographies on the table of a cafe in Whitchurch Rd, one which was famous for its sizzling sausage sandwiches and its mugs of builder’s tea. “Excuse me love, do you recognise any of these guys please?” The waitress leans over to get a closer look and, in the process, brushes her boobs up against Terry Heston’s ears. She nods her head. “All of them used to come in here, mornings and afternoons. Not all together. He was the loner of the group” she narrowed her eyes as she looked at Mickey Young. “didn’t say a lot”  

Molloy is cursing as he gets into his van in Bute Street. “Feckin little bastard” He smashes his left fist down on the dashboard. Arthur Macey Senior watches him drive off erratically from the window of his damp offices. “You shouldn’t have upset him like that” “I don’t know why you bother with him Da” “Because he’s from the old country and we look out for each other” “Our forefathers were chased up this street in 1919 purely for being Irish and his Grandfather and my father were good pals and they are lying in state next to each other up the Western Cemetery” “I’m sorry Da but this Ken Frane business is playing on my mind” “Don’t worry my boy” he scans the Barrage or what he can see of it through the alleyways of Mermaid Quay” “He’ll be swimming with the fishes before long and not before time too”