Fegan pulled the trigger.

FIVE.

41.

The smell of blood, sweat and alcohol rose up through the spectators to the top tier. The old man stood taller than anyone else in the barn, and he could see through all the raised fists waving euros and pounds. He always had the best seat in the house. After all, he owned the place.

The crowd's roar couldn't drown out the snarling and yelping from below. The dogs circled each other, snapping, growling and lunging. They were evenly matched, both of them with blocky jaws and thick necks. Both good, mature males, scarred and battle-hardened, with heavy balls hanging between their legs, filling them with fight. Choice pit bulls. Good animals. He loved good animals, as did any man worth a shite.

They'd been at it forty minutes now. Their snouts and barrel chests were caked in red, and fresh wounds glistened in the pitiless light. One had lost a piece of its cheek, and the other's shoulder was torn open, but neither tired of the struggle as their handlers goaded them to attack. Wooden boards lined the pit walls, wild arcs of blood, old and new, slashed across them.

The Brindle and the Red squared off, eyes locked together. The old man felt a surge in his loins, sensing this would be the final spar. The roaring of the crowd faded to a murmur, nearly sixty men waiting for the moment.

They didn't have to wait long.

Christ, they were fast. They looked stupid, just lumbering hunks of muscle and teeth, but think that and they'd have you. A good pit bull is quick; strong isn't good enough. They launched at the same instant, thick paws in the air, batting at each other, trying to get the other down. Their haunches bunched as they boxed, teeth snapping. Shouts began to rise from the crowd as the dogs danced and snarled, each trying to gain dominance, to push the other down and finish him. First it seemed the Red was gaining as its teeth pinched the folds at the back of the other's neck, but the Brindle forced its weight downward, throwing the Red off balance.

Then it was over. The Brindle's mighty jaws locked on the Red's neck, and a whimpering shriek echoed up through the old barn. A low, triumphant growl resonated in the Brindle's chest as it ground the Red's muzzle into the dirt. The Red's feet kicked out, but it was at the mercy of the other dog. The Brindle had no notion of mercy, and poured all its strength into its bulbous jaw muscles, breeding and instinct forcing its teeth together.

"All right, enough!" Bull O'Kane stepped downwards from tier to tier of the bleachers, his bulk making the scaffolded benches groan.

The handlers jumped into the pit to separate the dogs. "Release!" the Brindle's owner shouted. The pit bull was oblivious, blood trickling from between its jaws.

"Release!" He grabbed the dog's ear and yanked it.

The other dog's handler tried to pry the victor's jaws open with the metal rod he used to train his own animal. "For fuck's sake, he'll kill him."

The Brindle shook its head, reinforcing its grip.

"Jesus, get out of the way," O'Kane said.

He stepped down into the pit and pushed the handlers aside. The Brindle's scrotum dangled between its hind legs, tender and exposed. O'Kane's boot connected with a fleshy slap and the dog whimpered, but held on.

"Ignorant fucker," O'Kane said, wiping spit from his mouth. Once more, he drew his foot back; once more he buried his boot between the Brindle's legs. It staggered sideways, its hind quarters quivering, but still it kept its monstrous grip.

"This time, ya bastard." O'Kane was coming seventy, but he was still the Bull. He put all his weight behind his right foot, and now the dog opened its jaws and raised its snout to the corrugated roof. It howled, snarled, and turned to face its tormentor.

O'Kane locked stares with it. "Come on, then."

It lowered on its haunches, preparing.

O'Kane put his weight on both feet.

The Brindle didn't hesitate, coming at him with teeth bared, eyes rolling in its head, blood-tainted drool arcing from its black lips.

It didn't stand a chance.

O'Kane let it come at him, offering his callused hand. Just as it tried to clamp its teeth on his right fist, O'Kane forced his fingers to the back of its mouth and wrapped his left arm around its powerful neck. The Brindle opened and closed its jaws, struggling to gain purchase, but O'Kane pushed harder and seized its tongue with his thick fingers. He took his arm from around its neck as he twisted the slick pink flesh and pulled up until the dog's front paws scrabbled on the dirt floor. It coughed and gagged and whimpered as its eyes bulged.

O'Kane gave it a hard kick to the ribs as it hung there before lowering his arm, keeping the dog's head twisted to the side.

He turned his eyes to the handler. "If you can't control your animal, don't fucking bring him to my fights."

"Yes, Mr. O'Kane." The handler looked at the ground. "Sorry, Mr. O'Kane."

"Get this thing out of here." He released the whining dog's tongue as the handler slipped a chain around its neck.

O'Kane looked up to Sean the bookie and smiled, wiping his hand on his coat. Sean winked back and straightened his cap. Most of the crowd had put their money on the Red. It had been a good night so far.

A voice came from the barn's open doorway. "Da!"

O'Kane turned to see his son Padraig, as tall as his father and twice as wide. "What?"

"Yer man's here."

O'Kane nodded and stepped up and out of the pit, past his son - who turned and followed him - and out to the farmyard. Dogs penned in the old stables barked and snarled as they passed, and he hissed at them to shut up. Wire cages on the opposite side housed the visiting animals. A diesel generator rattled by the side of the derelict house, giving it and the barn power. The place still had the acrid chemical smell from the fuel-laundering plant he'd housed here before Customs had raided it. The dogs didn't bring in as much money, but they brought him greater pleasure. As an old man, he took his pleasures where he could find them. Besides, he had plenty of other plants churning out stripped diesel along the border.

Languid rain drops slithered down the farmhouse windows. A soft light burned inside. O'Kane pushed open a door into what had once been a kitchen.

"Wait out here," he said to his son, and stepped inside, ducking his head beneath the top of the door frame.

There were three other men in the room. Tommy Downey from Crossmaglen, thin and wiry with slicked-back hair, leaned against one wall. Kevin Malloy from Monaghan, thickset like O'Kane but a full twelve inches shorter, leaned against the other.

Downey pointed to the third man, who was seated in the middle of the room. "Here he is, boss."

"Aye, so he is."

O'Kane walked over to the man. The pillowcase over his head puffed out and in again as he breathed. His well-cut suit had red blotches on it.

"What's this? Did he not come quietly?"

"Not really," Malloy said.

O'Kane tutted. "That's a shame."

He reached out and plucked the pillowcase from the man's head. The young man stared up at him. Blood congealed around his nose and mouth.

"Jesus, Martin, you're sweating like a pig."

Martin blinked.

"It's an awful pity you wouldn't listen to me, Martin. Now it's come to this, and there was no call for it."

Martin's eyes brimmed. "What do you want?"

"I want to give you money. But you won't take it from me. It's mad, isn't it? I want to give you two hundred grand and you're slapping my hand away."

"I told you to talk to my solicitor."

O'Kane waved the idea away. "Jesus, solicitors? Fucking crooks, the lot of them. Why pay one of them fuckers when you can just deal with me?"

Martin's voice shook with foolish defiance. "That land's worth half a million and you know it."

O'Kane leaned down, his hands on his knees. "Is it, now?"

"The estate agent told me."

O'Kane snorted and stood upright. "Estate agent? Sure, they're even bigger crooks than solicitors. You don't need an estate agent to deal with the Bull. No, no, no. Spit and a handshake, that's how I do it."

The young man held O'Kane's eyes steady. "All right, I'll sell you the land, but I need a fair price."

O'Kane smiled and patted his shoulder. "You're a brave lad, son. Not many men will stand up to me. But listen to me, now. You're pushing your luck. The only reason I haven't fed you to the dogs is 'cause your auld fella was a good friend of mine. That's why I let him keep that farm for so long. You pissed off to England to get your nice degree and your fancy job. Now he's gone and you come running back looking to cash in."

"He left the farm to me; I can do what I want with it. I can sell it to-"

"You can sell it to me, and that's all. No one buys or sells land in South Armagh without my say-so. The sooner you get that into your head the sooner we can get this done."

Martin stared straight ahead. "You can talk to my solicitor."

O'Kane sighed and placed his hand on the young man's shoulder. "Please, Martin. Your father was a friend of mine. Don't do this."

"These aren't the old days. It doesn't work like that any more. I can go to the police." Martin looked up at him. He looked just like his father.

O'Kane closed his eyes and shook his head for a moment. He turned towards the door. When he reached it he looked back and said, "All right, lads."

He stepped out into the night and raised the collar of his coat to keep the rain from the back of his neck. Padraig passed him a cigarette, then cupped his hands around it. The match stayed lit just long enough to catch the tobacco. O'Kane pulled deep, feeling the gritty heat fill his chest. Sixty years he'd been smoking and all he had to show for it was a drop of phlegm in the mornings. Fucking doctors know nothing, he thought.

"You all right, Da?" Padraig asked, his gormless face shiny and wet in the glow from the barn.

"Ah, grand, son. Just tired, that's all."

The walkie-talkie crackled in Padraig's pocket. He pulled it out and thumbed the button on its side. "Yeah?"

A stream of static and hiss mixed with the sound of cheering and snarling from the barn. Dull thuds came from the house behind them, followed by small cries.

"Aye, we're expecting him. Let him through."

Padraig returned the radio to his pocket. "It's McGinty."

O'Kane looked beyond the barn and saw headlights approaching from the lane. "Go and keep an eye on the fight. Make sure Sean isn't slipping his hand."

"Right, Da." Padraig waddled across the yard, waving at the rusting Peugeot as it passed. Its wheels hissed on the wet concrete as it drew to a halt. The passenger door opened and Paul McGinty climbed out. He extended his hand.

"How're ya, Paul?" O'Kane squeezed the politician's fingers between his. Hard.

"I've been better," McGinty said.

"Where's your fancy limo tonight?"

"I was trying to be low-key." McGinty flashed his white teeth.

"Just right." O'Kane released his hand. "It's all arranged?"

McGinty's eyes darted to the farmhouse at the sound of a scream. "What's that?"

"Local problem. Nothing to worry about."

McGinty smoothed his jacket. "Yeah, it's taken care of. They should be here soon. Marie has a number for Fegan. We'll phone him then."

"The woman." O'Kane pointed a thick finger at McGinty's groin. "Don't let your cock get in the way. You do what needs doing, never mind the past."

McGinty tilted his head.

"Didn't think I knew about that, did you?" O'Kane's belly shook as he laughed. "You boys in Belfast think I'm too deep in cow shit down here to know what's going on. I know everything."

"That's ancient history."

"Good, good. But, here. There's another wee thing I know about. Something you don't."

A crease appeared on McGinty's brow. "What's that?"

A long, loud shriek came from the house. O'Kane glanced over his shoulder, and then back to McGinty. "Your wee pal, Davy Campbell. He's got a surprise up his sleeve."

"What sort of surprise?"

"Well, we'll have to have a word with him when he gets this length."

The door to the farmhouse kitchen opened and Tommy Downey stepped out. O'Kane turned to face him.

"Martin accepts the offer," Downey said.

42.