Rule of Night Read Online Free PDF Page B

man his own, no matter what religion, colour, creed. Ask anybody here.
Anybody
. Th’all know me. Ask them about Jim-iny Magnan – Manginum. He’ll tell you, he’ll tell you – this lad. Ken. Myyyyyyyyyy nefu. Neff-yoo. One of the bezt. He doesn’t like Spades either.’
    â€˜Oh fucking hell,’ Andy says.
    There’s going to be a barney, only Kenny doesn’t like fighting with relations. Jimmy is a pain in the arse but when all’s said and done he’s a harmless old fart; and occasionally he slips Kenny half-a-bar which Kenny forgets to return and Jimmy simply forgets.
    The gathering of old faithfuls round the bar looks on happily, awaiting with interest the next development. Jimmy is too bevvied to fight, of course, but he could put up a struggle that might be worth watching. Even seeing him fall on his arse would be good for laugh.
    â€˜Tell him, Ken; for fuck’s sake,’ Andy says with a pained expression.
    â€˜Look … cool it.’
    â€˜Don’t tell me – tell him!’
    â€˜He’s old, he’s past it, he’s pissed.’
    â€˜Then he should know better. I’m not going to take it, whether he’s your uncle or not.’
    â€˜He’s just a useless old drunk.’
    â€˜Tell him then. And make him shut up.’
    Kenny sighs; the world is on top of him. ‘Come on now, Jimmy, you’ve had enough. Doll will be waiting up for you.’
    â€˜My neff-yoo.’
    â€˜Aye, your nephew.’ He takes Jimmy by the arm and half-drags, half-carries him to the door. ‘I’ll see him across the road,’ Kenny says to Andy. ‘Get us a pint in.’
    â€˜Good neet, Jimmy!’
    â€˜Don’t do owt I wouldn’t do!’
    â€˜Watch yon bugger, he’ll have you under a bus!’
    â€˜Don’t knock any lamp-posts over on your way home!’
    Kenny comes back a few minutes later and picks up his pint with the weariness of somebody returning from a Siberian labour camp. It’s nearly time for last orders so he drinks the pint in one long gulping swallow and orders two more, wiping his mouth. Tomorrow it’s work again: getting out of a warm bed and putting on overalls stiff with grease, shivering in the pre-dawn gloom of approaching winter as he walks through the Estate to catch the Deeplish bus on Milkstone Road. The walk is like the taste of iron in his mouth, with the Estate looking grey and unwashed in the dim glow of the wall-lights set in frosted globes. The bus is foul at this hour of the morning, thick with cigarette smoke from the close-packed seats, the smell of diesel oil dense in the nostrils, and the continual sound of hawking coughs and throat-clearings. There is hardly any talk as he sits there, cramped between the streaming window and somebody’s arm holding the
Sun
, aware only that his bones feel like brittle sticks as the bus jolts over the humped canal bridge past the Kwik-Save supermarket on Well’ith Lane. Monday is always the worst morning of all, Tuesday is slightly better, and by Wednesday he is looking forward to the week-end.
    Andy has made contact with the barmaid. She’s thrown the towel over the pumps and stands with her hard round breasts resting on the bar. Kenny wasn’t there to see the initial overtures and innuendos and he wonders for the umpteenth time how it is that Andy can never go wrong with the birds; he must have a great technique – unless it’s simply because they fancy a bit of black for a change. He’s talking to her in a low confidential voice, the two of them isolated amidst the noise and movement in a private cocoon of soft phrases and small intimacies.
    The lights are flashing and the landlord calls, ‘All right, gentlemen, let’s have you. Come along now. Your glasses please.’
    The barmaid looks straight at Andy and nods once. She mouths something with an exaggerated motion of her red