Page 30 of Dublin's Danger Dancer

“Well, I finally got what I wanted.”

I raise my eyebrows. “And what was that?”

“Feeling you lose control.”

“Maybe I faked it.”

“I don’t think you can fake involuntary muscle spasms.” he says, cocking an eyebrow.

“You’re coming to Terence’s boxing match tonight to meet the family.” He reaches into his suit pocket, the one I was wearing last night and places a wad of cash on the bed next me.

“Is this danger money for meeting your family, should I use it to buy a bullet-proof vest?”

Liam closes his eyes and a small laugh escapes his lips.

“If you can find a bullet-proof sexy dress, then I don’t mind you wearing it, but you won’t need one. Uncle Freddy knows how important you are to me. He learnt the hard way.”

Liam produces a phone and puts it to me. “I need to be able to reach you securely. You can call and text me on this.”

I looked down at the phone. It’s a Chinese brand I’ve never heard of.

“I really have to go, Ciara, but later we’re going to resume where we left off last night. Before you fall asleep,” he says, tracing his thumb along my lower lip. He slowly pushes it into my mouth. It’s hot and wide. He pulls out again rhythmically pushing it back in.

“I really have to go,’’ he chides himself as he pulls his thumb out of my mouth and kisses me hard, pushing my head against the pillow causing a feather to poke through and tickle my neck.

“I’ll pick you up at seven.”

As the door closes my eyes fall on the yellow gold watch he has left on my bedside table. I pick it up. I’d seen it before at the club. It’s a Patek Philippe. The most expensive watch brand in the world. A show of true power. No one dared steal it from him because they’d lose more than their hand.

Paket Philippe is inscribed inside the Ivory coloured dial. The town of the watchmaker sits underneath: Geneve. The hands tick around the gold hour markers as I examine the shiny brown alligator strap with square scales.

I may have given him something, but now I could take something from him. I spring out of bed eager to cash his watch.

Google had informed me that this was a Calatrava. One of Patek Philippe’s bestsellers. It was worth less than I’d assumed but still a €40,000 donation to Radius could house dozens of women for a year. A smile burns my cheeks and I can’t work out if it’s the helpers high or the high of serving Liam a plate of revenge steak with a side of fuck-you fries.

I stop myself overthinking, pulling on a grey hoodie top, jeans and my NYC baseball cap. I grab my bag, sunglasses, phone and the watch, lock the door and hurtle down the stairs like I’m a teenager about to spend my first paycheck from my Saturday job.

I stepped out into a velvety sun raised high in the electric blue sky. The coolness of the night still hangs in the air. I needed to pawn the watch somewhere Liam wouldn’t find. To my delight, the purple double decker is cruising towards me. I hop on board, hit my leap card against the reader and sit down as far away from a puddle of vomit that splattered by the area for prams. The acidic bile is so strong the other passengers are noticeably mouth breathing. I join them. After six stops, I get off near the city centre.

A half-empty double decker drives past, shedding a flickering light on the cobblestones. I practically skip to McGraths. A tiny pawn shop down a back alley near Temple bar. One I knew asked no questions, didn’t have CCTV and was known for their loyal silence under interrogation.

The shop front is a worn brown timber. If you didn’t know better, you’d assume the shop was out of business or soon to be. Bricks poked out around the doorframe and raw copper wires were scattered above. I was surprised health and safety hadn‘t shut them down.

I pull my hat down. Push my sunglasses up my nose and push the door handles open. It’s much heavier than it looks and instead of opening it pushes me back. I push this time leaning in until the door hinges open, revealing the scent of stale cigarette smoke and fish and chips.

Inside, a black cast iron bucket is filled with newspapers used for wrapping fish and chips. I can still see orange bits of batter clinging to the fat swollen inky paper. The light inside is dim and gloomy. I walk a short corridor to enter a tiny space with a glass fronted shop face where a range of items are displayed at the back for sale. There are gold bracelets and necklaces, an assortment of Claddagh rings, a ruby stone necklace, and a huge array of watches.

As I step into the space, a buzzer goes off. It’s not an inviting buzzer, more like a warning signal. A man emerges through a beaded curtain and I wonder how his enormous beard didn’t become entangled in it.

“How can I help you?”

“I have a watch I want to sell.”

He opened the hatch in the glass where barely an envelope would fit through and pushed through a decaying plastic tray.

“Put it in here,” he says.

I take the watch from a bag and place it in the tray.

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