Rowan Maguire buttoned up his coat and stepped into the bright sunshine of a crisp November morning. He shook hands with Reverend Fergal Walsh of the Free Presbyterian Church of Ballykenny, County Donegal and nodded sombrely before following his wife and daughter down the path towards the gate. Kathleen Maguire tucked her leather gloved hands inside her coat sleeves and gave her husband her usual look of disdain, while Meghan attended to the twins in their pushchair.
“You’ll be goin’ down the lodge for pint?” she asked, already knowing the answer.
“I thought I would. What time’s dinner?”
“What time is it usually?” His wife cut him no slack, ever.
“I’ll be back at one then. You alright Meghan darlin’?”
His daughter tucked a blanket around the children and turned but refused to meet his eyes. “Aye, Daddy.”
She’d get over it. It had been a terrible shock, but it was all for the best in the long run. She’d made a big mistake; they all had, but the mistake had been rectified and the family’s honour and future had been preserved. The weans would be brought up in the proper way without being sullied by the taint of papism.
Sean and Michael, respectfully turned out in their black polo neck sweaters and smart black suits, were waiting on the pavement holding open the doors of the S-Class Mercedes, their eyes constantly scanning the road ahead and behind. Maguire waited while his daughter strapped the kids into the back and Sean drove them away with Michael and Conor following in a Porsche Cayenne. It was such a fine day that for a moment he contemplated walking to the lodge but thought better of it
“Is it the lodge, Mr Maguire?” asked Jerry as he opened the back door of the BMW.
***
Mr Maguire had been expected. There was a pint of the black stuff waiting for him on the bar, perfectly poured in exactly 119.5 seconds with a three-quarter inch head of creamy white foam. The lodge was full of men in their Sunday best wearing their sashes, and a few nodded their respect as Mr Maguire made his way to his favoured position at the bar. Clasping a hand around the cool glass. He emptied a third of it in one long draw and wiped away the froth on his upper lip with a paper napkin.
“How’s it goin’ Martin?” he said to the young barman who was drying a pint glass with a towel before placing it on the shelf above the bar.
“Fine, Mr Maguire,” said the eighteen-year-old.
“Did you pour this?”
The boy’s anxiety was immediate. “Is there somethin’ wrong, Mr Maguire? Shall I get you another?” He put the towel down and hastily reached for the glass, but Maguire got there first.
“Leave.” He looked at him sternly and watched the boy swallow. “It’s perfect Martin. You’re becomin’ an expert, so you are.” He downed another third and the boy relaxed then burst into a wide grin.
“Martin, go and change the barrel on four,” came a voice from behind and Martin trotted off as his father Michael Murphy approached.
“Michael.”
“Rowan.”
Perfunctory greetings concluded; Murphy handed a slip of paper across the bar.
“What’s this?”
“Looks like another message from the Holy Father himself.” Murphy winked at him and couldn’t resist a smirk. “Requestin’ an audience?”
“You’re a feckin’ eejit, Michael,” muttered Maguire, unimpressed with the attempt at humour. He read the note twice and slipped it into his pocket.
“Am I right?”
Maguire reckoned his pal Murphy was enjoying the joke a little too much, so he drained his glass and pushed it forward. Murphy reached for a clean glass and positioned it under the tap at the requisite forty-five-degree angle. Maguire watched mesmerised as the pale creamy liquid turned brown, then black and when at last it was ready, took a big mouthful. Two and a half minutes had been long enough to decide.
Even from the grave, that Fenian bastard was still causing trouble. The journalist had been useful in finding the hoor and she could be useful again, but he didn’t like people poking around in his affairs. He would have to put a stop to it once and for all.