Page 30 of Hang on St. Christopher

“I’ve missed my ferry now for sure.”

“I suppose you’re staying in Ireland, then.”

“I suppose I am.”

McArthur cleared his throat. I caught his eye. Aye, mate, there’s nothing more to do here. We CID goons are mortals just like you. I’ll go back to One-Thirteen Coronation Road, and you go back to your young wife Tina and her annoying parents.

“Okay, let’s hit the bricks,” I was just about to say when a big, tattooed skinhead dude in a red parka came down the street toward us. He was accompanied by what could only be described as henchpeople. Three other skinhead blokes in rain gear, and a couple of skinhead girls. They were all in their teens or early twenties, and rather than looking ridiculous, they actually looked like trouble.

At their appearance on the street, some of the wee kids who should have been in bed long before drifted back out of the shadows.

“Look at these giant soggy pork scratchings,” the large skinhead dude said, to great mirth from his comrades.

“And who are you?” I asked.

“I’m Pete,” Pete said. “You might have heard of me.”

“I have heard of you. You denied our Lord three times after he was arrested in the garden,” I said.

“What? No. What are you talking about? That wasn’t me.”

“Well, then, I haven’t heard of you,” I said.

“Pete Scanlon. This is my wee neck of the woods. And youse boys have been here long enough disturbing the peace, annoying everybody, so I think it’s time youse went on home. Get me?”

“We were just about to—” McArthur began but I cut him off.

“Did you put that flag up?” I asked, pointing at the Nazi rag.

“No.”

“Do you know who did?”

“No.”

“Did you see who drove a Norton Commando away from that Jaguar there a couple of hours ago?”

“No.”

“Well, then, Pete Scanlon, you’re fucking wasting my time. Take your baldy crew and go back inside your houses, or I’ll have the fucking lot of you lifted for affray.”

“Who’s gonna do this lifting?” he said with a pretty fair amount of menace.

“Me and my mates,” I said, getting a skeptical look from McCrabban, and ano bloody waylook from McArthur.

“This is a Young Carrick Defenders street, and you’re here on it by our grace and favor, and we the residents think it’s time you fucking left, peeler,” Pete said.

“I’m CID. I’m investigating a murder,” I explained.

“I don’t care what you’re investigating. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll fuck off,” he said.

Several more scary-looking dudes had appeared from various doorways and side streets, and the mob of wee kids had increased to about twenty now.

Crabbie wasn’t going to let me lose face in front of a paramilitary thug, but I could see the concern knitting his forehead. He gave me a little shake of the head that meantleave it, Sean, it’s not important. We’ve done what we came here to do; now let’s go home.

I took a step closer to Pete Scanlon. “The Assyrians came down like the wolf on the fold,” I said.

“What?”

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