City of Bohane: A Novel by Kevin Barry

mighty bark sounded from the rear of the mob then and it was answered, ritually, by a mad volley of barks from all around the freaky shebeen.
    In the cruel light the pocked skin of the Cusacks was all the worse for the badly inked starling tats it was covered with. (Complexions generally on the Northside Rises are nothing to write home about.)
    Wolfie and Fucker looked around the enemy’s lair:
    Markings on the walls depicted the sacred symbols of the Rises: pit bulls in bout and the strange winged daemon-sluts of the flatblocks and there were memorials also to the dead knifemen of Northside lore.
    Wolfie and Fucker looked massively unimpressed as they took a lamp on the Cusack mob:
    Cusacks had settled this season on high-rolled denims and armless geansais and they had starling feathers – glossily iridescent, a greenish black – tucked into the bands of their pork-pie hats. Low brows were uniform and gave that vaguely puzzled look that is associated always with Northside knuckle-draggers.
    The bark sounded again, was met by a volley of barks, and now it was Eyes Cusack himself, the king barker, who made his way through the mob.
    Topless but for his gold chains, stoutly built, as near enough wide as he was long, with a mouthful of gold caps, he grinned malevolently as he approached the boys.
    Stopped a couple feet from them.
    Eyeballed Wolfie and took measure of the kid.
    Nodded appreciatively.
    ‘So the boy-chil’ step up,’ he said.
    Rubbed his chin, thoughtfully. Came closer.
    ‘So the boy-chil’ workin’ his own plan or he keepin’ Fancy’s affairs in nick?’
    Sadly let his shoulders fall.
    ‘Coz, boy-chil’, it gotta be said, like? We got a rake o’ Cusacks wearin’ scars an’ welts offa ye lot this las’ while, y’check?’
    Wolfie agreed.
    ‘Been lively aroun’ the place awrigh’, Cuse,’ he said. ‘But there weren’t no one got what weren’t comin’.’
    Hisses, caws, growls sounded – Eyes Cusack raised a hand to stop them.
    ‘Boy-chil’ … Reefins aside, like? There been floaters on the Bohane river down the years and them floaters got bruds and cuzzes in this place, y’heed?’
    Wolfie bowed his head, briefly, and then turned his glance sombrely around the shebeen.
    ‘I’m sorry for yere troubles,’ he said.
    The mob shook free of itself and came hissing forward but Eyes Cusack raised again his mottled hand, and he cried:
    ‘Hup! Hup now!’
    The mob eased up, despite itself, despite its awful compacted energy, and Eyes Cusack was admiring.
    ‘The boy-chil’ got grapes,’ he said. ‘Sure y’ain’t got Norrie juice in ya someplace?’
    Wolfie winced.
    ‘Oney yella in me’s what I piss in the mornins,’ he said.
    Eyes pursed his lips and raked a sconce on Fucker then.
    ‘An’ the galoot got a lash o’ the pike in him, yep? Sketch the green eyes on it.’
    Fucker spat, and flexed, and glared hard at Cusask.
    ‘Business wan’ doin’,’ he said. ‘So don’ min’ the aul’ bitchtalk, Cusey-gal.’
    Eyes turned to his hissing mob and smiled and danced a wee skank.
    ‘Oh the Long Fella don’t rear no blouses for lieutenants,’ he said. ‘Sends me up a prize pair o’ comanches. Don’t do the walk hissel’, though, do he? No, sir. Long Fella stayin’ close to home, yep? Watchin’ his yard. Am I right or wrong, ginge?’
    ‘Mr Hartnett is indisposed,’ said Wolfie.
    ‘Oh aye?’ said Cusack. ‘What’s he at? Straightenin’ the eyes in his bint’s head, s’he? Or he workin’ a little plan with his mammy, like? He mammy’s lil’ boy yet, like? O’ course the Hartnetts all for doin’ business down the New Town these times, ain’t they? Herb and hoors not good enough for the Fancy no more. No, sir. Now it’s all trams and manses, ain’t it?’
    Wolfie raised a hand to signal the talk was at an end.
    ‘We gots somethin’ to put t’ye,’ he said.
    He reached inside his puffa and removed an envelope of silver vellum. It was embossed with the