Page 35 of Dublin's Danger Dancer

Panic strikes my throat. I’d almost forgotten to follow through with my cover-up story.

“I’ll be a minute.” I say locking the door behind me.

I pull out my phone and dial Fergus. He’s labelled as one of the girls from the club. Fiona. I was grateful for the huge raucous noise and high ceiling outside. There was no way Liam could hear me, even with his ear to the door.

“Hi, I say. “I’ve no time. There’s a shipment coming in tonight. Emmett’s industrial estate. 2:00 am.”

“We got a match on the DNA sample. And you’ll be glad I dissuaded you from seducing O’Shaughnessy.”

“What’s the match?”

Fergus sucks in a breath. “It’s the unknown DNA found on Harriet. A squad has already been dispatched to arrest him at the boxing match.”

I stop pacing the small toilet. A knock jolts me out of my frozen state. “Hurry up, Ci!” shouts Liam. “The match is about to start.”

The way the nickname my sister had called me by rolls off his tongue makes me want to choke the life out of him.

I flush the toilet and lift the faucet to signal I’m coming out.

“Ciara, are you there?’’ asks Fergus.

“I’ll call you later.” I say before ending the call.

When I open the door, Liam is leaning against the doorframe, his hair touching the top of the frame. A drumroll is reaching its climax.

“I don’t know how you go in, and five minutes later you come out looking even more beautiful.”

“Magic,” I say, clicking my fingers.

A Mexican wave is gripping the crowd of spectators. Waves of people stand up in one single motion laughing. The crowds full of people whose cheeks are blistered bright red from drinking.

“Come on, will ya? The match is about to start.”

“Who have you put your money on?”

“Murray Clary.” As we round the side entrance into the main arena Liam points up at the boxing ring to the boxer. The muscles in his broad shouldered hulk back are grinding together as he hops from one foot to another rotating his neck and shoulders. His skin is scattered with red dots indicating a recent wax.

As he raises his red gloved fist in the air the crowd goes wild.

“Knock him on his ass!” Screams one older man. My eyes scan the crowd, many nudging each other in anticipation of the violence.

I had a lot of respect for boxers. You didn’t just need to be able to punch or take a punch. You needed to have something in you that pulled you up when all your vitals were pulling you down. Most of these guys were fighting for money for their families. They were the desperate wild ones who put on the best show and were inevitably in debt to the wrong person. Someone just like Liam.

“Announcing the Irish heavyweight title defender, Ryan McCarthy.” Says the announcer.

The crowd roars as Ryan enters the arena wearing his trademark gold boxing gloves. His manager massages his neck quickly before he hops the ropes into the ring.

The referee brings the boxers together to touch gloves. Liam and I press through throngs of people crowding around the ring to the prime position of our front row seats. I was surprised no one had dared to sit down in our two flap down chairs, but it seemed everyone knew these seats were reserved for Liam O’Shaughnessy.

The bell rings. Each boxer moves to the other, their footwork so slick, it wouldn’t have looked out of place in a dance studio. Clary threw the first punch, McCarthy backed away as his opponent came towards him with even more force, pummelling on top of his raised gloves held it in front of his face.

We sit down. Panic inches all over my skin as I fix my feet to the cemented floor beneath my plastic fold out, wondering at what point Liam would be arrested.

“I think this is going to be the easiest €100,000 I’ve ever made,” he says.

Liam reached over and laced his fingers through mine. I have to stop myself from pulling back. Instead I drive my fingers deeper into his. The heat of his hand, a burning reminder of me trying to explain my betrayal at Harriet’s graveside.

“This is only round one,” I say.

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