Wicker Wood - sequel Draft 1 ....Fanahan again in crappy mood!!!

Fanahan had to admit that Gerry had tidied it up, and gave the place a lick of paint. He was unsure about the big framed painting of Milo R.I.P. Rot in Pogutary. Does that place exist any more? Does Limbo either? It was hanging at the back, behind the counter above the mirror, it looked like he was smiling down at the punters!

A new, different clientele...if you could call toss-pots and drunkards clientele, were now coming into the Saloon Bar. The plonker changed the name as well. Fanahan knew that late on a Saturday night, in this location, after watching TV and engaging in iPhone betting on the nags all day, the boys would act like cowboys in a saloon brawl.

“What cha say to her, me gurlfrien'?”

“Nuttin'.”

“Well that's it then - just say nuttin' or ya'll be picking up yer teeth – wan by wan.”

But a couple of new customers were dropping in for a few. Scoping the place out no doubt. Shay was missing the old crowd – even the Prick – you could get a rise out of him. Now, it seemed, he had reverted into Georgie, cast off the cloths of his granny the duchess, and was on the lam.

I need a diversion, from me problems. Wind yer man up.

“Would you like a drink pal?” The suited, if shabbily suited, gentleman on his right turned and looked Shane up and down.

“No thank you, pal. I'm fine and on my own: enjoying my own company.”

“Oh! La de daw, pal and it's detective to you, Detective Inspector Fanahan, to be exact. Who are you?”

Flustered at such a direct approach, cautiously he replied. “Church Willmore is my name.”

“Church? After Churchill, it's no wonder you shortened that. What do you do, Church?”

“I'm retired.”

Fanahan was starting to enjoy himself, interrogation was something he enjoyed, particularly when it served his purpose of upsetting someone.

“What did you do then? How would you describe yourself? Mr. Retired.”

“I would say I was a former editor at the Irish Press Newspaper Group.”

Fanahan wanted to reply and I'm a former schoolboy but instead continued twisting the knife. “Sure that went out of business in 1995, didn't it. Connie was the only journalist in that rag, the rest acted like stringers. The mouthpiece of De Valera. He founded it. Didn't he?”

“So they say detective.”

“Hop it then back to your own company, I'm tired engaging with you.”

Fanahan remembered the note he had picked up in the hospital: the one Georgie left for him, after he hanged the auld dear to pretend it was himself as the duchess. He fished it out of his pocket, opened the envelope and glanced at the message.

I've changed my drink to a Brandy and Port, Shay. Suppose you are still a pint and a ball o' malt chaser man.

See you soon and we can reminisce.

Jees. He is back, and I bet he is as evil as he ever was. More evil? Bloody psychopath.