Chapter Twenty-Two
When Rafferty took his Ma on their usual Friday evening trip to the supermarket, she had barely got herself securely strapped in as a protection against his intrepid driving style –as he called it, boy racer in her view – than she complained at his continuing failure to resolve the differences between his two brothers.
Rafferty swore under his breath – it was more than his life was worth to do it out loud in front of his mother – and said, ‘I’m doing my best, Ma. I can’t work miracles.’ Crafty mare, he thought, as if he didn’t have enough on his plate right now. She’s going behind my back and speaking to Patrick Sean or Mickey herself. At least, seeing as she knew the situation already, he was saved the little difficulty of confessing. Not that he could tell her much.
