A Raucous Time (The Celtic Cousins' Adventures) Read Online Free Page A

when he heard Wren crying.
    ’I’m sorry Gran, so sorry.’ Sighing, Rhyllann turned back and shook him awake.
    ‘You’re dreaming brawd, don’t worry, Gran’s gonna be fine.’
    Wren tried, then suddenly gave a genuine smile.
    ‘Annie – I’ve just thought – d’you think they’ll let my Mum out to visit Gran?’ Hopefulness entered his voice.
    ‘Maybe.’ Rhyllann muttered remembering he still had to brief one of the nurses.
    ‘Go back to sleep. I’ll see you tomorrow.’
    ‘Night Auntie.’ Wren whispered, closing his eyes again, blond hair curling around an angelic face.
    Christ. He really should put a pillow over his head.
     

Chapter Six
     
     
    Around the corner from the Eagle nestled between a video hire shop and tobacconist sat AA Draines. Which Crombie thought a bloody good name for a betting shop. He picked his time carefully, no bookmaker would be inclined to chat once the race meetings started.
     
    This must be one of the last independent shops in the country, no attempt had been made to bring the place up to date, no fruit machines, no screens flashing the latest odds, not even a telly showing whatever meeting the BBC had decided to cover for their afternoon racing. Instead Draines relied on "The Blower", an overexcited disembodied voice blaring out the action as it happened. At the rear stood a schoolroom sized blackboard, with a few non-runners already chalked up. As various meetings begun around the country it would fill, prominence being given to the race about to start. Once that race was over, the winners and runners up would be chalked on one side, together with the all important starting prices. The board would be rolled up as the day progressed, with earlier races disappearing from sight obliging latecomers to request how their horses had fared. Punters wrote out bets standing at a chest high shelf underneath the newspapers’ racing pages tacked to the walls. The one concession to luxury was a forlorn water dispenser complete with plastic cups gathering dust.
     
    The blackboard stood behind a counter known as ‘the jump’ where staff took money, rang up bets and worked out returns. Staff this early in the day being Irish, and the manager, Bill. The board man would be in later. Irish manned or rather womaned the till, collecting betting slips from customers, peering quickly to ensure they were legible and the stakes had been worked out correctly, checking the odds were still current all in the blink of an eye. She practised favouritism turning a blind eye to the fact that odds had shortened, or accepting bets even though the race had just started. Those she didn’t like had their slips thrust back at them for the slightest mistake and were curtly told “No good. Write it out again.” In another life, Irish would have made an excellent school marm, as a poker player she would have excelled, her face rarely showed a flicker of emotion. Her manager perched on an identical bar stool, head down reading the rest of the day’s mutilated newspapers, his real work would start this afternoon.
    Irish’s stool faced the door, her face didn’t change expression as Crombie walked in, but she must have nudged Bill, who glanced up and closed his paper to acknowledge Crombie.
    ‘Morning Crombie.’ His hand slid over the daily papers, ready to pass one over, many of his regulars mooched in just to have a read of the news. The place was more like a club than a betting shop. Crombie occasionally popped in on Mondays, to catch up with the weekend’s sports’ results.
    ‘Morning Bill.’
    The air towards the back of the shop was fresher, double doors behind the blackboard gaped wide open. Mainly for Irish’s benefit, or rather the cigarette permanently lodged in the corner of her mouth. Probably another reason the little betting shop would be packed out with punters later today.
    ‘Can we have a chat? Out the back?’ Crombie indicated the small concrete yard.
    ‘No mate.’ Bill’s