The longest of days for Vinny Fitzpatrick began with a snap decision; he would take up Fran's offer of sanctuary.

It followed a weekend of friendly persuasion over pints, along with some sensual coaxing from Petra, whose curvy clutches he had reluctantly prised himself away from that morning.

“I’ll drop anchor here for a week or two, until the coast is clear. Expect me after work tomorrow,” he said over a hearty breakfast in Fran’s spacious apartment, close by Clontarf cop shop. As he strode along the promenade on Sunday morning, walking off a few carbs on his way home, Vinny was in fine fettle, for the path ahead appeared clear of pot-holes.

With all the Lugs O’Leary aggro, the looming court case, and his estrangement from Angie and the twins, the notion of hunkering down with an old pal, and a new fling until things cooled off, held appeal.

Too often in the past, he had been content to be an island, to cut himself off from the mainland of companionship. It was time to accept the hands that wanted to feed him, not bite them.

“There’s always safety in numbers,” he said, turning the key in the lock of the old Fitzpatrick family home in Causeway Avenue. As he entered the tiny hallway, Vinny thought it strange that the alarm didn’t beep. “That’s odd,” he thought. “I was sure I set it before going out last night.”

Vinny was halfway down the hall, about to inspect the alarm box, when the attack happened. A bag was pulled down hard over his head from behind and tightened around his throat. As he gasped for air, he felt something hard jam into his lower back and he fell on his knees.

“Gotcha,” said a rasping voice Vinny knew since childhood: Lugs O’Leary.

As the pressure built on his throat, Vinny moaned aloud and then blacked out. How long he was unconscious for he wasn’t sure, but when he came to he was seized by a deep fear his situation, bad as it was, was about to get worse.

He was stuck fast on a kitchen chair; his wrists were strapped to the arm rests, his ankles taped to the legs. He could barely breathe due to the duct tape across his mouth. At least he could see, but even that was a mixed blessing as sitting across from him at the kitchen table, staring through black soulless sockets, was Lugs.

“So you’re back in the land of the living, Fat Boy,” he said with viper-like smile “Well, enjoy it, ’cos it won’t be for much longer.”

Vinny knew Lugs of yore, when the bark was worse than the bite but this time was different; every word dripped with menace. This time, there would be no rationalising with his nemesis, no explaining how he’d tried to make light of his church injuries to the gardai, or how it was Lugs’ wife, Jenny, who had grassed on her husband, not him.

The time for reason was over; the race was run it was only a matter now of declaring the outcome. At that moment, Vinny knew he was about to die. That Lugs would be his executioner was almost inevitable. The craggy giant had bullied him for nearly half a century, his dislike gradually morphing into hatred.

Lugs had seethed in silence as the pudgy kid from St Joey’s had become a pillar of the Clontarf community; won a Driver of the Year award for Dublin Bus, and was picked ahead of him to play Brian Boru in the Battle of Clontarf Millennium celebrations. Yet, for all that, Vinny reckoned it was his brief dalliance with Jenny that had finally pushed Lugs over the edge of reason.

To lose face to Vinny, of all folk, was a mortal blow to the Leviathan’s self-esteem.

Dating agency

God, how Vinny regretted placing that ad in the online dating agency or agreeing to the rendezvous at Fairyhouse races. He thought of J

Alfred Prufrock

, of “decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse”. What he would give to reverse that one.

“Ye know Fitzpatrick,” growled Lugs. “I put up with a lot of crap from you and your pompous pals in Foley’s all these years. You’re a right little Rotary Club crew, clocking in and clocking out for your pints, your punts and your pious pontifications. Not once did you ever ask me to join youse. Not once!” he thundered. Maybe now, I’ll get an invite ’cos there’s going to be a spare seat in that cosy corner – yours.”

At that, Lugs stood up and walked across to the cooker. Wearing gloves, he lit the gas and popped the deep fat frier in place. He then peeled three large potatoes, which he washed and cut into slices. After a few minutes, he dipped the chips into the sizzling fat with a smug sneer.

“You know, when they come to scrape you off the floor, they’ll shake their heads and say how Vinny used to love his jockey’s whips. Someone might even laugh at the irony, someone like me.”

Ugly face

At that, Lugs turned back to Vinny, bent down, thrust his brutal ugly face close up to his frightened hostage.

“This is how the final furlong is going to play out, Fat Boy,” he said softly.

“Your chip pan is going to overheat and catch fire, and when it does, the gas underneath will explode and this little house, and all her contents, including you, will shatter into smithereens.

“Only you won’t feel a thing and for that, you can thank me. I’m going to knock you out with a dose of chloroform, untie you, and put you in the front room, with the telly on and the Sunday papers on your knee. You’ll be out cold when it happens. ‘Death by misadventure’, they’ll call it.”

Vinny rocked forward and back in his chair, wide-eyed with terror. He heard Lugs move behind him and felt his head being jerked back.

A moment later, something soft, which smelt sickly-sweet, was pressed against his nostrils. He thought he heard Lugs whisper “Happy Father’s Day”. After that, there was nothing.