Narrow Ground

Prologue

Prologue

Michael Dougan bounced off the door frame of O'Connell's Bar and heard the bolts slam home behind him. It was three o'clock in the morning. He'd been the last to leave following a card game that had begun after most of the regulars had traipsed home on what had been a wet and blustery night. Dougan steadied himself against the bar's heavy stone windowsill and felt for the leather pouch in his coat pocket. The illuminated sign above the door had been switched off hours before and he cursed under his breath as he dropped the cigarette paper on to the wet pavement.

Making his way, crab-like, to the lamp post, he lined a new paper with rolling tobacco. He'd been hand-making cigarettes since he was eight years old – first for his dad and uncles, then, not long after, for himself and his pals. As drunk as he was, his fingers twiddled expertly to make the thin kind of smoke he'd become used to in prison. He ran his tongue along the gummed edge, patted his pockets and swore again.

Placing the roll-up behind his ear, he re-orientated himself to his surroundings. Either direction would eventually lead him to his bedsit half a mile away but, as usual, he wanted to go via the former family home to stand in front of the old house and bask in its melancholy gaze. Then he'd chuck a stone or two at a window and shout something appropriately offensive in the direction of the sleeping form of that b***h of an ex-wife of his.

As he lurched forward on his journey, Dougan didn't see the man standing in the shadows of an alleyway. He stopped and steadied himself against the wall as the man stepped into the outer edges of the glow of a street lamp.

'Jesus but you gave me a start. Do ya have a light?'

'I don't smoke, sorry,' the man lied.

'Hey I know you, don't I?' Dougan pulled himself in at the stomach and squared his shoulders when no reply was forthcoming. 'And what would you be doing abroad on a fine night such as this?'

The man backed out of the light and into the shadows once more.

Dougan followed, his blood flowing with boozy courage. The man without a light, the man he thought he'd seen before, was younger, fitter and taller. Dougan's addled brain took in the reality of the situation and calculated the likely consequences of a poor decision. It rejected any logical notion of self-preservation and instructed his legs to move into the alley. The cobbles were wet. He had to step around a large puddle and manoeuvre past the wooden crates and bin bags left over from the day's market. He could smell piss and rotting vegetables. It didn't improve his mood.

Dougan's fists clenched in readiness for the swift one-two that would crown his night. His eyes adjusted to the darkness, just enough to see the outline of the figure standing to his front several feet away. He made himself as tall as he could under the circumstances.

'Oi, I asked you a question.'

'Matthew.'

Dougan peered through the gloom as a face moved out of the shadows. 'Matthew?'

'My brother.'

'Jesus.' Bravado had given way to fear as recognition slopped across the pickled synapses of a mind that saw its future in the darkness.

'No, not Jesus: Matthew.' The man fired the silenced .22 calibre pistol twice and Dougan fell where he had stood.

The man with the g*n listened. The town was quieter than any town he'd ever known. The body on the cobbles didn't move. He looked down into the wide staring eyes of the dead man and fired three shots into the face. There would be no open coffin.

Dougan was the last. It was time to go home.