In his hand a carrier bag, and in the bag a shoebox. It weighed more than his son. This thought wouldn’t leave. It echoed to the patter of the raindrops. There were bars along this stretch of road, and taxis cruising past. Not by any means a deserted part of the capital. Dancer had given Mose whispered instructions, and sent him off to whatever lock-up, safe house or hole in the ground Dancer stashed his stock in. The shoebox he’d come back with held a Makarov, a Belgian model. Bettany had dry-fired it, there in Dancer’s office. It didn’t feel like it would blow his hand off when loaded. He hadn’t thought he’d ever hold a gun again. Had thought that part of his life was over. A woman walked past, gave him a quick look, and hurried on. What would Liam have said if he’d seen him tonight? Stark naked, wielding a carving knife? Threatening to lop parts off a man who’d never been more than a messenger? It didn’t matter. It wasn’t relevant. Liam was in an urn, a mess of grit and clinker.
