Page 31 of Hang on St. Christopher

“And their cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold.”

“Is that fact?”

“Aye, well, it’s in the Bible, mate, so while not a fact as such, it is at least invested with a venerable provenance.”

“You think this is Sunday school. You think you can quote Bible at us, and we’ll go the fuck away?”

“It’s not the Bible. It’s a poem. Don’t you like poetry? Here’s some more: the sheen of their spears was like the stars on the sea, when the blue waves roll nightly on deep Galilee.”

“What are you talking about, peeler?” he said, confused.

“Sorry, I thought you’d be interested. It’s about these fucking cunts who tried to fuck with the wrong people.”

“Inspector Duffy, I think we should be heading on,” Chief Inspector McArthur said. The mob was still about twenty people, and the Beemer was parked facing the wrong way in the cul-de-sac. Might be hairy if it came to?—

Something hard struck me on the side of the head.

Crabbie was immediately at my side, his hand reaching for his weapon in his shoulder holster.

I touched my left temple, and although I wasn’t bleeding, it hurt like hell. Something shiny was rolling between my feet. I bent down and picked it up. A ball bearing.

I addressed the crowd.

“Who fired that!” I demanded.

No one said anything, but the crowd parted a little to reveal a blond kid of about fourteen years, holding a slingshot.

“Right,” I began, but before I could say anything more, the wee shite took off running.

It was way beneath my dignity, and a detective really shouldn’t be distracted by stuff like this, but I couldn’t help myself. I reached into my pocket, took an enormous drag on my asthma inhaler, and belted off after him.

“No, Sean!” I thought I heard Crabbie yell, but it was too bloody late.

I chased the wean down Glenfield Street, where he turned and sprinted across the top road and up one of the lanes into the countryside. He was scared and fast, but I was big and angry, bearing down on him like a bull in Pamplona. I slipped, almost went arse over tit, righted myself, and ran on.

Through a bramble hedge, around an apple tree, over into a field.

Rain, mud, sheep shit, frightened sheep.

He slipped on a gate as he tried to get out of the field and went backward into the muck.

“You wee fucking turd,” I said as I reached him.

“Mister, that?—”

I grabbed his collar, pulled him to his feet, and slapped him on the head.

“Aow! That’s police brutality, that is!”

I slapped him again.

“It’s what?” I asked him.

“Police bru?—"

I hit him again.

“It’s what?”