Born Bad: A gritty gangster thriller with a darkly funny heart - Marnie Riches

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      ‘Go on, love,’ Paddy told the girl. His voice was soft, but Sheila could see from the hard set of his mouth that he was seething. And his livid gaze was trained directly on Sheila, scorching its way through her skin.

      The storm was coming. Sheila felt suddenly far less brave. Knew instinctively that the unloaded flintlock would be her undoing.

      ‘I’m sorry,’ Tracy Wheelan said to neither of them in particular. She grabbed her cheap clothes and scuffed stilettos and shuffled over to the subterranean spa exit. Clattered up the stone steps to ground level. Was gone.

      Paddy grabbed the barrel of the gun and wrenched it out of Sheila’s hands.

      ‘You bitch,’ he said. On his feet now, his nakedness in that enclosed space felt suddenly oppressive. The roundness of his belly pinned her up against the sweaty wall. His erect penis stuck into her navel like an angry thorn. She could smell beer and cigarettes on his breath. He had spent lunchtime in the pub, clearly. Probably some shithole in Parson’s Croft, where he and Conky had swung by to collect protection subs.

      ‘I was only doing her a favour. Giving her a bit of a shoulder to cry on. Her mam’s just died, for Christ’s sake. She was cut up. I was tense. I’ve been working all the hours God sends and getting no comfort off you. I was giving you space, She.’ Paddy’s eyebrows knitted together. His nostrils flared as he breathed rapidly. In, out, in, out, like a panther waiting to pounce. ‘There was no harm in it. But you’ve just scarred a young girl for life, you jealous, snooping cow.’

      Realising she could not easily make a bolt for freedom now that she was pinned against the wall, Sheila whispered, ‘Sorry, Pad.’ Defensively, she raised her hands to her face.

      Paddy rammed the butt of the flintlock into her ribs. The air escaped her lungs in a hiss. The pain was intense.

      ‘Nasty, bullying bitch.’ Spittle flew from Paddy’s mouth as he brought the flat of the stock down onto her cheekbone.

      ‘Stop, Paddy!’ Sheila cried, clasping at the side of her face. ‘That’s going to bruise, for Christ’s sake! I bought you the guns to say sorry. I’m sorry, Pad!’ Tears streamed from her eyes, though she struggled hard to hold them inside. Didn’t want to show him how much she was hurting or how frightened and vulnerable she suddenly felt.

      He stopped abruptly. Stared down at the gun, as if only noticing it then for the first time. Turned the weapon over in his hands, running stubby fingers over the filigree metalwork.

      ‘Ottoman?’ he said, raising an eyebrow. He raised the flintlock to his shoulder and stared down the barrel at Sheila. Pulled the trigger. ‘Bang.’

      Sheila winced.

      Paddy winked.

      ‘Nice gun,’ he said. Then, he hit her over the head hard with the barrel.

       Chapter 2

       Conky

      ‘I’ll be down in a tick,’ Paddy shouted to Conky McFadden, poking his head out from one of the doors on the galleried landing. Fastening the cuffs of his shirt. On his bottom half, he wore only his pants. Hairy, freckled red legs on show. ‘I’m just going for a shit.’

      ‘You take your time, boss …’ Conky said, peering down at the shine on his new shoes. ‘… While I hang around like a fart in a trance,’ he added, lowering his voice to a half-whisper. ‘Sure, I’ve got nothing better to do at eleven pm on a Friday night.’

      Conky stood at the bottom of the stairs, hands folded behind him, sighing. Remembering how Paddy had stunk their cell out when they’d done time together, all those years ago. He had always laughed that it was the evil coming out. Bloody hell. Nothing changed, did it?

      Glancing into the oversized mirror by the cloakroom, he double-checked that his trusty hair-piece was still reliably fixed into place, with his own dwindling hair successfully combed over the artful construction. He poked at it gently. It was robust, with no visible bald bits. Excellent. He must pay that bean-counting eejit, David Goodman, a little intelligence-sourcing visit soon, while his hair was looking quite so regal as to be almost intimidating. Maureen Kaplan’s son-in-law always blabbed a little louder with proper use of The Eyes, the power of The Hair and, of course, a pistol in his flapping mouth.

      Conky tried to lessen his frustration by focusing on his thoughts about A Brief History of Seven Killings – the Man Booker Prize winner he was meant to finish in time for his book club. Which he had missed tonight because of Paddy. He checked his watch. There was a Dutchman waiting at the club to discuss the supply of mephedrone in the northwest. A big meeting, called at short notice at Paddy’s behest. But Paddy loved to keep people waiting. Conky, however, liked to be on time. Trapped in the punctuality paradox of being Paddy O’Brien’s muscle, Conky scratched at the nervous rash that started to itch up his neck beneath his best shirt.

      ‘Alright, Conks?’ Sheila said, emerging from the kitchen.

      He turned around to greet the boss’ wife with a warm smile. Pushed his Ray-Bans up his nose to kiss her on the cheek. She smelled of exotic home cooking and perfume. He drank her aroma in and tried to commit it to memory. Her small, soft hand felt like a child’s inside his. He prayed his palms were dry. And that she wouldn’t see his irritable rash morphing into a blush.

      ‘Sheila,’ he said. Not knowing what to say next.

      ‘Want something to eat? I made a lovely paella. I’m just putting aside the leftovers. There’s plenty.’ She started to untie the apron from her tiny waist.

      ‘Aye. I could eat the arse of a baby through the cot bars, so I could,’ he said. Normally, she trilled with laughter when he used those old Norn Iron turns of phrase from his Belfast boyhood. Tonight, there was not even the glimmer of a smile. ‘I was only going to grab a burger at the club. Paddy’s due there in ten. So, I might have to eat it on the hoof, if you don’t mind, Sheila. The boss—’

      ‘Paddy can wait,’ Sheila said in a low voice. The lines either side of her mouth seemed etched deeper than usual.

      She turned away from him. He followed her diminutive gym-honed form over to the range cooker, never taking his eyes from her. Savouring the opportunity to look without being seen or judged. But there was something unusual about her gait. She was walking gingerly.

      ‘Are you okay, She?’ he asked.

      Turning to face him, Sheila’s gaze only reached as far as his chin. ‘Fine. I overdid it at the gym.’

      He took several strides towards her and raised his glasses to his forehead, putting aside any self-conscious discomfort in knowing she would be able to see his protruding eyes. Stooping, he scrutinised the delicate bone structure of her face in the bright sparkling light of the chandeliers. Could see the ghost of a livid green bruise on her forehead, lurking just beneath a layer of heavy makeup.

      ‘What happened?’ He stroked her cheek gently.

      She didn’t retreat from his touch but nevertheless refused to meet his gaze. She was blinking rapidly. ‘I tripped over my step in aerobics. Landed on one of my five-k barbell weights, face first, didn’t I?’

      She looked furtively over at the kitchen door, as though she expected Paddy to be standing there, eavesdropping. Started to dish paella clumsily onto a plate, treating Conky to more uncomfortable silence, as though she resented him for drawing attention to the obvious.

      ‘If there’s anything you need to talk about, Sheila,’ he said, feeling the pressure of so many unspoken words, accumulated over years, pushing behind his thyroid eyes.

      Her body stiffened suddenly. She turned back to the cooker. Busy with her frying pan.

      Conky

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