art . . .
Hail Mary, full of grace . . .
In the name of the Father . . .
14
The first time Dixie saw Owen Peyton, he wasn’t the handsomest man in the pub – that was Paul, the long drink of water she was seeing at the time – but he was the coolest. Owen didn’t live on the Cairnloch estate – he was in the Bird’s Nest that evening, in company with a dozen others, because he hung around with a brother of one of Dixie’s friends. Shaggy dark hair, a bottle of Heineken in his hand, and a smile that lit up his deep dark eyes. She was aware that she wanted him to like her and even more aware that she didn’t want him to know she gave a damn.
Back then she was Dixie Bailey. Deirdre to her father, Dixie to everyone else. The most important thing in her sights was the health-and-fitness course she was doing. A diploma would open all sorts of doors – a job at a fitness centre, maybe freelance work as a trainer. She didn’t speak to Owen that night, but towards the end of the evening, just before he left with a couple of friends, he met her gaze and raised the Heineken in a toast.
Two weeks later she broke up with Paul and phoned Owen. He said, ‘You took your time.’
Owen drove a white van. ‘Deliveries,’ he said. He didn’t have set hours, he didn’t take the van home with him – it was garaged, he said, somewhere out in Coolock. It wasn’t his van, but he had the full-time use of it from his boss. People that he knew, he said, recommended him to people who wanted stuff moved.
He’d spent a year at DCU and quit, because he could earn more doing what he did than he’d ever earn when he got a degree.
It was a few weeks later that Owen’s van was stopped with a stack of stolen tyres inside. Standing at her front door, Owen’s brother Brendan telling her what happened, Dixie felt like a layer of ice had been placed across her scalp.
‘He’ll be all right. Don’t worry.’
Owen rang Dixie as soon as he got bail and they went to The Merchant Prince. ‘It’s something I do from time to time, it’s not a big deal. Some of the stuff I move, it’s not the kind of—’
He stopped, took a breath. ‘It’s not how the millionaires do their business. But, I mean, that’s the way things work in this country. There’s the official way, right? And there’s VAT and receipts and accountants and all that shit. Underneath that there’s the real businesses, the ones that most ordinary people make a living out of. I mean, do you know anyone who pays full price for anything?’
People do deals, he said, and maybe they don’t do all the paperwork, but it’s how the world works, and when people do deals they have to have stuff shifted, and that was what Owen did.
Dixie asked him if he’d ever been arrested before.
He looked her in the eye for a few seconds. ‘A couple of little things. Probation. Doesn’t count.’ Then, he said, he got two months for receiving, but that wasn’t a serious thing and, besides, he got out after six weeks.
This time he did fourteen months.
While Owen was in jail, Dixie had a miscarriage. When he came out they got a three-bedroom flat in Santry and spent a week fitting it out. Dixie thought it looked like something from a magazine.
*
Owen’s brother Brendan was best man. He was the older brother, pudgy and dour, but Owen said he was just shy.
At the reception Dixie came across Owen in conversation with a chubby middle-aged man in an expensive suit. The man looked at Dixie and turned to Owen. ‘You did well, kiddo.’
Owen introduced him as his boss. The man stuck out his hand to Dixie. ‘Lar Mackendrick. Best thing ever happened to this scallywag, when you took him on.’
Later, Lar Mackendrick danced with Dixie, sang two songs and when he left he handed Owen an envelope. When they opened it that evening they found tickets for a flight to Paris, a voucher for a week’s stay at a hotel and two grand in cash.
‘What business is he in?’
‘Whole lot
Hail Mary, full of grace . . .
In the name of the Father . . .
14
The first time Dixie saw Owen Peyton, he wasn’t the handsomest man in the pub – that was Paul, the long drink of water she was seeing at the time – but he was the coolest. Owen didn’t live on the Cairnloch estate – he was in the Bird’s Nest that evening, in company with a dozen others, because he hung around with a brother of one of Dixie’s friends. Shaggy dark hair, a bottle of Heineken in his hand, and a smile that lit up his deep dark eyes. She was aware that she wanted him to like her and even more aware that she didn’t want him to know she gave a damn.
Back then she was Dixie Bailey. Deirdre to her father, Dixie to everyone else. The most important thing in her sights was the health-and-fitness course she was doing. A diploma would open all sorts of doors – a job at a fitness centre, maybe freelance work as a trainer. She didn’t speak to Owen that night, but towards the end of the evening, just before he left with a couple of friends, he met her gaze and raised the Heineken in a toast.
Two weeks later she broke up with Paul and phoned Owen. He said, ‘You took your time.’
Owen drove a white van. ‘Deliveries,’ he said. He didn’t have set hours, he didn’t take the van home with him – it was garaged, he said, somewhere out in Coolock. It wasn’t his van, but he had the full-time use of it from his boss. People that he knew, he said, recommended him to people who wanted stuff moved.
He’d spent a year at DCU and quit, because he could earn more doing what he did than he’d ever earn when he got a degree.
It was a few weeks later that Owen’s van was stopped with a stack of stolen tyres inside. Standing at her front door, Owen’s brother Brendan telling her what happened, Dixie felt like a layer of ice had been placed across her scalp.
‘He’ll be all right. Don’t worry.’
Owen rang Dixie as soon as he got bail and they went to The Merchant Prince. ‘It’s something I do from time to time, it’s not a big deal. Some of the stuff I move, it’s not the kind of—’
He stopped, took a breath. ‘It’s not how the millionaires do their business. But, I mean, that’s the way things work in this country. There’s the official way, right? And there’s VAT and receipts and accountants and all that shit. Underneath that there’s the real businesses, the ones that most ordinary people make a living out of. I mean, do you know anyone who pays full price for anything?’
People do deals, he said, and maybe they don’t do all the paperwork, but it’s how the world works, and when people do deals they have to have stuff shifted, and that was what Owen did.
Dixie asked him if he’d ever been arrested before.
He looked her in the eye for a few seconds. ‘A couple of little things. Probation. Doesn’t count.’ Then, he said, he got two months for receiving, but that wasn’t a serious thing and, besides, he got out after six weeks.
This time he did fourteen months.
While Owen was in jail, Dixie had a miscarriage. When he came out they got a three-bedroom flat in Santry and spent a week fitting it out. Dixie thought it looked like something from a magazine.
*
Owen’s brother Brendan was best man. He was the older brother, pudgy and dour, but Owen said he was just shy.
At the reception Dixie came across Owen in conversation with a chubby middle-aged man in an expensive suit. The man looked at Dixie and turned to Owen. ‘You did well, kiddo.’
Owen introduced him as his boss. The man stuck out his hand to Dixie. ‘Lar Mackendrick. Best thing ever happened to this scallywag, when you took him on.’
Later, Lar Mackendrick danced with Dixie, sang two songs and when he left he handed Owen an envelope. When they opened it that evening they found tickets for a flight to Paris, a voucher for a week’s stay at a hotel and two grand in cash.
‘What business is he in?’
‘Whole lot
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