No Place in the Sun

As with any publication, this one didn’t get written on its own. A lot of people helped me with this project, and several good friends were involved in turning a disparate collection of rough chapters in to the finished book that you now hold in your hands. David Rice of the Killaloe Hedge School first showed me that maybe I had the germ of an idea that needed nurturing, and he gave me the techniques that helped me to turn the outline idea into a draft novel. Kate McMorrow, Brian Rogers, John Breen, Joe McDermott and Joe Fahy all read the draft and made useful suggestions that shaped the final version of the book. Isobel Creed of the Writers Consultancy was always encouraging while at the same time being critical of things that needed criticism. In hindsight, she was right about almost everything.

My brother Frank is my best sounding board for my work; he is always my first port of call when I need something to be read and critiqued. His encouragement from the first chapters encouraged me to keep going and write it to the end, and his suggestions as always were sharp and have shaped the final product.

Last and not at all least, my partner Una encouraged me to write the book and gave me the space and support to allow my creativity to flow unhindered. She was the one who kept me going when the muse deserted me, and who stood back and gave me plenty of room when it was all going well.

‘I hab a pleadin pun in the pag, ged dowd on de four.’

The young man was dressed in a pair of navy tracksuit bottoms and a white hooded sweatshirt; the hood was pulled up over a cream coloured baseball cap and he had a red football scarf wound round his mouth. A pair of extra-large sunglasses completed the picture. The youngster was wearing the brightest whitest pair of trainers that Tom had ever seen; he looked at him in amazement.

‘I hab a pleadin pun. I’ll pleadin ude it.’

‘He has a gun in the bag and he’ll use it, that’s what it sounds like.’ Walter put his hand on Tom’s shoulder. ‘I think he wants us to get down on the floor.’

The youth lifted the scarf away from his mouth and screamed at them.‘That’s what I bleedin said, I have a bleedin’ gun in the bag, get down on the bleedin’ floor.’ He waved the brown paper bag in the general direction of the two salesmen.

Tom lowered his lanky frame flat on to the floor of the shop, no sense arguing with the guy, he might be on drugs or something. He lay flat on his stomach and said nothing.

Walter got down slowly on one knee and put his hands on the floor. ‘Take it easy, son. We only work here, we’ll do whatever you say, no need to point that gun at us.’ He put the other knee on the ground and then slowly stretched himself out until he was lying on the carpet tiles beside Tom.

‘Wherd the manader?’ The youth lifted the scarf from his mouth;‘where’s the bleedin’ manager?’

‘There isn’t a manager as such, there’s just four of us working here.’ Walter raised himself up on his elbows to speak to the raider.

‘Four of yous, where’s the others so?’ The youth angrily pulled the scarf away from his face and stuffed it in the pocket of his hoodie.‘Get down on the bleedin’ floor, I said.’

‘Robert doesn’t come in until this afternoon, and Andrew will be coming through that door in a minute. He’s the nearest thing we have to a boss.’ Walter nodded his head towards the swing door leading to the canteen.

‘You better not be bleedin’ shitting me, I have a bleedin’ gun.’ The youth waved the bag menacingly at the Tom and Walter.

‘Like I said, son, no skin off our noses, we’re not shitting you.’

A youth in a green hoodie peered round the front door; he had the front of his hood pinched in one hand to conceal his face.‘Hurry up, Macker, there’s an old dear coming.’

The raider strode nervously up and down the aisle between the washing machines and the vacuum cleaners.‘Shite, fuck, tell her it’s closed, tell her the gaff is closed.’

The youth stuck his head back into the shop.‘She wants to know when it’ll be open, she wants to buy a washing machine. She said her old one is broke.’

‘Fuck her and her bleedin’ washing machine; tell her to come back in an hour, tell her the electric is fucked or something.’

Andrew chose that minute to make his entrance through the swing doors. He marched across towards the small appliances counter, coffee in hand. He looked around for Tom and Walter but couldn’t see anyone except the youth with the paper bag.

‘Good morning, sir. My apologies, I thought my colleagues were out on the floor; how can I help you?’

‘He wants to rob you, Andy.’ Walter carefully raised himself up on his knees from behind the row of vacuum cleaner boxes. ‘He has a gun, but he promised not to use it if we cooperate, so don’t panic.’

The raider waved the bag at Andrew. ‘Hand it bleedin’ over.’

Andrew stood in shock, his mouth opening and closing but no words coming out. He wordlessly handed the paper cup of coffee towards the youth.

‘Not the bleedin’ coffee you stupid queer, the bleedin’ money, where’s the bleedin’ money, open the fucking safe or I’ll blow yous all away, I’m not kidding yous.’

The other youth poked his head around the door and spoke from behind his hands. ‘Hurry up for fuck’s sake, Macker. I have to go to the jacks.’

‘In a fucking minute.’ He turned to where Andrew stood rooted to the spot. ‘Open the bleedin’ safe, now I said!’

‘It’s not locked, but there’s nothing in it, we just opened the shop an hour ago.’

‘There has to be bleedin’ money in it. This is a big fucking gaff; yous must have loads of bleedin’ money in the safe.’ The youth was losing some of his bluster.

‘Honestly, it’s here under the counter, and it’s open; come and look.’ Andrew was white faced and trembling.

The youth raced over to the counter and pushed past the terrified salesman. He pulled the empty cash box and the book of gift vouchers from the safe and threw them on the ground. He kicked the cashbox away and rounded angrily on Andrew.

‘There has to be bleedin’ money here somewhere, I’ll kill ya, ya fucking queer ya.’

Andrew was shaking; he put his cup of coffee on the counter to stop it from spilling.

‘Really, honestly, there’s no money here. We nearly never have money in the shop; it’s all hire purchase and credit cards anyway. Please, you have to believe me.’