“They can’t do that,” Ryan said. “Can they?”
“Of course they can. They can do whatever they want. They call it protectionism. The associations, the unions, all them boys scratching each other’s backs. They have this country by the balls, and they’re going to run us into the ground.”
“Maurice!” Ryan’s mother scolded.
“Well, they do.”
Ryan’s mother changed the subject. “So, are you courting?”
Ryan felt the heat spread from his neck up to his cheeks. “No, Ma. You know I’ve no time for that.”
“Och, you’re thirty six,” she said. “You’ll be too old if you wait any longer.”
“Leave him alone,” Ryan’s father said. “He’s got time enough for that yet. There’s old man Harney’s boys are all past thirty, one of them’s over forty, and he’s no notion of letting them get married yet.”
Ryan’s mother snorted. “Sure, why would he when he’s got four big lads working for him and not a penny to pay for it? Our Albert’s not a farmer. He should be finding himself a nice wee girl and getting settled.”
“I’m far too busy,” Ryan said. “Besides, I’m living at the camp. I need a place of my own before I can go chasing after women.”
Ryan’s mother sat back in her chair, raised an eyebrow. “And what would you need a place of your own for? No decent girl would go to a bachelor’s home. And any that would, well, she wouldn’t be the sort for marrying, would she?”
Ryan slept hard and deep in his old room, tired from the day’s driving. The bed creaked and rattled as he stirred with the morning’s early light. He borrowed his father’s razor to shave at the washbasin in the corner of the cold bedroom, goose pimples sprouting across his body.
Once washed and dressed, Ryan made his way downstairs, creeping to the back door. His mother intercepted him.
“Where are you off to?” she asked.
“Just thought I’d take a quick walk. I haven’t seen the town in ages.”
“All right,” his mother said. “Don’t be too long. I’ll have some breakfast for you when you get back.”
The sun grazed the rooftops as he strolled along Main Street, a man walking a horse down the centre of the road the only other person he saw. The sound of the animal’s hooves echoed from the buildings. The man nodded as he passed. A cool breeze made Ryan button his suit jacket.
He passed shop fronts, businesses generations old, hand-painted signs above the windows, prices and offers written in white on the glass. A needlecraft shop, a dressmaker, a gentlemen’s outfitter.
They all seemed smaller now, as if the wood and bricks and glass had shrunk over the last twenty years. In the farthest parts of his soul, Ryan knew the reasons he seldom returned owed as much to his resentment of these buildings as they did to Tommy Mahon’s bullying. Even as a boy, he had felt a town like this was no place for him, its streets too few and too narrow, the people mired in its quicksand. Even now, he felt the place tug at his ankles, trying to regain its hold on him.
As a teenager, Ryan had wondered at his father’s endurance of the town, unable to understand how he did not crave a better life, a bigger life. One day, he asked his father why he took on the family business despite the pittance that it earned, why he had not left and made his own world elsewhere.
“Because you’ve only got the life you’re given,” Ryan’s father had said. “And it’s good enough.”
But Ryan knew it would never be good enough, not then, not now.
He stood outside the shop with the sign saying MAHON’S CASH ’N’ CARRY. Dark inside. He tried the door, found it locked.
Ryan took another look along the street, saw it was empty, and walked around to the rear of the building. A large car, a Rover, was parked in the alleyway, and a bicycle stood propped against the wall. Ryan heard a voice issuing commands from inside the building. He approached the open doors.
Gerard Mahon, Tommy Mahon’s son, stood smoking a cigarette with his back to the alley. A young boy, no more than thirteen or fourteen years old, stacked boxes of washing powder at Mahon’s instruction.
“Good morning,” Ryan said.
Mahon turned. He had gained weight since Ryan had last seen him, his face bloating with the onset of middle age. He stared for a moment before recognition softened his expression.
“Albert Ryan? Holy Jesus, I haven’t seen you for years. I thought you’d fucked off to England.”
“I’m just visiting my parents.” Ryan stepped into the shadow of the doorway, felt the cold of the building, smelled bleach and tobacco. “I see you’re branching out.”
Mahon smiled and took a drag on the cigarette. “A new venture. Your auld fella can’t have all the business to himself.”
“I suppose he can’t.” Ryan took another step inside. “It’s a funny thing, though. I heard he’s been having some trouble with his suppliers since your father set you up with this place.”
Mahon’s smile became a bitter slash. He wagged a finger in Ryan’s direction. “I set this place up myself. Anyone who says different is a lying bastard.” Mahon turned to the boy who had stopped stacking boxes to watch the two men. “Get into the shop. The floor needs mopping. Go on, quick now.”
The boy did as he was told and exited the store room.
Mahon turned back, flinched when he found Ryan so close. Ryan stood several inches taller than the other man and he used every one of them.
“I heard someone had a word with the Trades Association and made sure the suppliers stopped dealing with my father.”
Mahon shook his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. If your auld fella can’t stand a bit of competition, he’d best pack up and get out.” Emboldened, Mahon raised himself to his full height. “He should’ve got out a long time ago. We could do with a few less of your kind around here, anyway.”
“My kind? What kind is that, exactly?”
Mahon licked his lips, swallowed, sucked on his cigarette. “Protestants,” he said, exhaling smoke to plume into Ryan’s face. “Especially when they breed Brit lovers like you.”
Ryan slapped the cigarette from his mouth. Mahon stepped back, eyes wide.
“Here, now, you better watch who you’re—”
The blow caught Mahon beneath his Adam’s apple. He dropped to the floor, his knees cracking on the concrete, his hands going to his throat. Ryan kicked him hard between the navel and groin. Mahon collapsed onto his belly, his face turning from pink to purple.
Ryan undid his belt buckle and stood astride Mahon. The leather came free with one pull, and he crossed his hands to form a loop. He bent down, slipped the loop over Mahon’s head and around his neck.
Mahon gave an agonised croak as Ryan hauled him up onto his knees. He brought his fingers to his throat, tried to force them between the belt and his skin. Ryan tightened his hold. Mahon’s body jerked and bucked.
Ryan put his lips to Mahon’s ear. “Now listen to me. I will call my father in two days. If he doesn’t tell me his suppliers have delivered everything he wants, I will come back for you. Do you understand me?”
He loosened the belt. Mahon choked on air. Ryan pulled again, tighter than before.
“Do you understand me?”
He allowed Mahon to inhale.
Mahon mouthed a word, the only sound the hissing sibilant at its tail. He nodded and coughed, drool spilling from his lips.