He opened his eyes and focused on a face. He frowned, trying to remember where he was, and a voice said, ‘Maybe you hit him too hard, Frenchy?’ Frenchy grunted. ‘So what? He’s going anyway, isn’t he?’ He took a firm grip of Shane’s coat and lifted him into a sitting position. He grinned evilly. ‘O.K., Jack. Drink your medicine like a good boy.’ The neck of a bottle was rammed between Shane’s teeth, and whisky gurgled into his throat. A terrible nausea flooded through him. His body jerked convulsively and vomit erupted from his mouth in a fine spray. Frenchy jumped up with a curse and kicked him viciously in the body. ‘The bastard’s ruined my coat,’ he snarled. ‘I’ll never get the stink of this stuff off.’ He hurled the bottle against a wall with a crash, and moved away. ‘I’m going for another bottle. When Joe arrives with the car, put laughing boy here in the back and wait for me.’ A door banged and he was gone. It was quiet except for the steady sizzle of the rain, and Shane opened his eyes cautiously and looked around him.
