I hope you’re happy now..
I could never make you so…
You were a hard man…
No harder in this world
You made me cold, you made me hard
And you made me the
Thief of your heart
–The Thief of your Heart: Sinead O’Connor
Bobby sat in the living room, on an old sunken couch that might once have been beige. A cigarette hanging from his lips, his hands completed the familiar task of dismantling, cleaning and reassembling the gun. The gun metal matched the hue of his coarse, closely cropped hair and his cold, reptilian eyes. His knuckles were brutally scarred, but his fingers quick and agile.
“Bobby, there’s a call for ya,” said a voice from the kitchen.
Bobby put the gun, still in two parts, down on the newspaper covering the battered coffee table. He heaved himself out of the chair and walked towards the window and the phone on the table below it. A harsh ring cut the air as the call was transferred through. Bobby picked up the receiver, took a drag from the Marlboro and grunted smoke and a greeting.
“Bobby? Bobby its Caitlin. They’ve butchered Michael. The fekkin’ bastards have killed him, Bobby, he’s dead.”
Bobby grew still. Flicked the cigarette out of the window and looked down into the street below.
“Caitlin. Are you sure?”
“Bobby, I saw his body. He’s dead. They cut him up good. He was a mess. I want it sorted, Bob. I want the fuckers to pay.”
“Caitlin,” he said softly, “There’s no way they could have reached him. He was safe. I took care of it myself. What the fuck happened?”
With the phone hooked between his face and massive shoulder, Bobby took another cigarette from the pack in his shirt pocket and lit it as Caitlin’s low voice told him about the morgue and the wounds on Michael’s body.
“Shultz,” he growled, when she was finished. “Shultz was the only guy who knew, Caitlin. Give me four hours. I’ll call you on the mobile. Leave it to me.”