Page 35 of How to Kill Your Rival

‘Thanks, Dougie,’ Eliza says with a dazzling smile that brings a wash of pink to Dougie’s cheeks.

Fraser takes a bite of one of the crispy, salty, oily potatoes and immediately needs to hashafashasha until it cools.

‘You don’t need to inhale them immediately,’ Eliza says to her brother. ‘They’re always roasting at first. When will you learn?’

Fraser shrugs and wipes a smudge of potato from his lip piercing.

I give it a solid five minutes before helping myself; the savoury hit makes me moan.

‘I don’t know what Dougie does back there, but I don’t think Chef could match these,’ I say. The pub is so small, Dougie does everything. Cooks. Pours. Cleans. I look down at the sticky floor and have some doubts on that last one…

‘We probably don’t want to know,’ Eliza says. ‘The chip fat is likely twenty-year-old lard.’

‘Obviously not,’ I say.

I drink my beer and sigh. This is exactly what I need. And what Eliza needs, too. A slice of normality. In as normal as our lives get.

Eliza and Fraser talk about work, which means detailing their latest bloodiest kills as they try to outdo one another. I zone out until I hear Hector Stewart’s name come up. I narrow my eyes, but they are talking in code.

‘The kills don’t seem to trace back to the Stewarts from what I can see,’ Fraser says.

I lift my brows. Why would they? What does Fraser know that I don’t?

‘Why would you expect it to?’ I ask.

Eliza and Fraser exchange a look. Unease settles over me. What does that look mean?

‘Just being thorough.’ Eliza takes a long sip of her wine.

Fraser nods. ‘The app trails don’t lead anywhere, but there’s rumbling that Hector Stewart and Patrick Kavanagh have been involved in some way. You know what the lower-level guys are like for gossip. As bad as fishwives. Plus, Kavanagh’s always been a sanctimonious fuckhole. It makes sense he’d want disarray.’

‘His grandfather tried to take over once. The coup failed, and he paid with an eye,’ Eliza adds, shifting in her seat like she’s holding something back.

I’m still suspicious of that look, but I let it go. The more I mull over Terry’s threat of closer to home, the harder I look at Fraser. In a system where fathers pass their chairs to sons, how does he really feel about his dad handing over to his sister instead?

The door swings open and Marco tumbles in. Ancient and wrinkled, he’s a former mafia man who’s a resident at the local old folks’ home for retired wealthy criminals. And he has a penchant for escape.

Thankfully for the carers, he always makes a beeline straight for the pub.

He must be nearing ninety and is still built like a brick shithouse until you look closely. When you get closer, you see the signs of age and the brittleness. The papery skin and milky eyes.

Dougie pours him a pint without comment, then texts his contact at the home. It’s the same way every time.

Marco looks over and spots Fraser.

‘You,’ he says, his pointing finger trembling a little.

Fraser looks up. ‘Me?’

‘Arm wrestle me.’

Fraser looks at me. Looks at Eliza.

He’s tattooed to all buggery and pierced nearly as much. While he knows how to kill, his look attracts a lot of attention. Not perfect for a contract killer.

‘I haven’t finished my whisky,’ Fraser says.

‘After the whisky.’ Marco pulls out the seat next to Fraser and sits on it, prepared to wait.