Maison Majella chapter 8: “Potholes, passports, planning or miscellaneous?”
Councillor Chap Stack comes through for Majella
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Pablo and me are dancing to She Bangs on a beach. It’s our song. Well, one of them. We actually have loads. His hips are going ninety and even though I’d normally struggle to keep up, I’m holding my own. His right hand feels hot on my lower back and our groins are mashed together as we move across the sand in perfect harmony. I feel so at peace, dancing in the sun. And I’ve never fancied him more in his billowing blouse and tight little trousers. I’m just thinking maybe I should chance lifting him when the scene starts to dissolve and I realise I’m actually in bed in the mobile home and the music I’m hearing is my phone ringing.
Baby Aisling stirs beside me, her little foot jammed into the side of my neck. Shit, I must have fallen asleep trying to put her down for her afternoon nap. The only thing that’s working this week is pretending I’ve nodded off myself but sometimes my acting is too good and I’m out for the count before her.
When I reach for the phone my stomach lurches. It’s Revolut. I spoke to the fraud squad on Monday and they said there was a small chance I might get my money back. After Skippy Brennan dedicated five shows to victims of the Bespoke and Beautiful scam last week, the Guards managed to catch con artist Henry Fresson, or should I say, Wayne Mullins, boarding a flight to Kusadasi for a hair transplant. The Criminal Assets Bureau were all over it.
“Andrius, I hope you have good news for me?” I whisper, pulling the door closed behind me and padding down to the dinette. I nearly snot myself tripping over DJ