Crusher by Niall Leonard

she wanted to come over and hug me, but if she did she thought better of it. She probably avoided cuddling other men in front of her husband, especially total strangers who had walked in off the street, even if they had saved her son’s life. She threw me a tight, timid smile instead, dazzling enough to leave me gaping like a goldfish.
    “Thanks again,” she said. Taking her little boy’s hand she led him back out the way we had entered. The kid just had time to wave and flash me a grin before he vanished. The little girl had been sent upstairs earlier to change out of her swimsuit, so now it was just me and McGovern in the room. And his minder, of course, who stood to one side, so huge and motionless he might as well have been a wardrobe.
    “I didn’t catch your name earlier,” said McGovern.
    “Finn Maguire,” I said, watching his face carefully. No reaction that I could see—the name meant nothing to him. Or it did, but he was too shrewd and self-controlled to let his true emotions show on his face.
    “A Paddy, like me, yeah?” He smiled.
    “A Londoner,” I said. “My stepfather was Irish. I took his name.”
    McGovern held out his hand. I took it. It was firm andcool and muscular, and I could feel his measuring mine the same way.
    “Thanks, Finn. You saved my kid’s life.”
    “You’re welcome, Mr. McGovern,” I said.
    Another man entered the room, moving silently. Thirty-something, slim and lithe, the way he moved suggested he was either a fighter or a dancer, and dancer seemed unlikely. Dressed smart-casual in spotless clothes with discreet designer labels, his face was sharp, narrow and angular, with high cheekbones and a thin nose. A grin seemed to flicker constantly across his bony face like he was thinking of a really funny joke he wasn’t going to tell you. Right now he carried a plastic carrier bag with the label of a South Ken fashion store. Its rustling was the only thing that betrayed his presence, but McGovern knew who he was without looking round.
    “James, this here’s Finn Maguire.”
    “I heard. The hero of the hour.” His voice was soft, his tone sardonic. He offered the bag to McGovern, who opened it, took out some clothes and handed them over to me.
    “Tracksuit. One of mine, you look about my size. Put it on.”
    “Thanks,” I said. I tossed the jacket onto a sofa, shookout the pants and pulled them up under my robe, trying not to worry about McGovern or his minder or James catching a glimpse of my knob. I shrugged off the robe, laid it over the sofa and pulled the jacket on, while McGovern took a seat on the sofa opposite, and James sat back on the one between us, relaxed and curious. There was a pair of brand-new trainers at the bottom of the bag too. I took them out and slipped them on quickly. They were a size too big, but I wasn’t about to complain.
    “Get you something to drink, Finn?” said McGovern. He sat forward, elbows on his knees, fingers interlinked, his pale grey eyes fixed on me. He didn’t blink much, I noticed. I knew that trick as well. I could go a long time without blinking, and knew how it could rattle someone looking at you without them even being sure why. There was something down the back of my trousers, I realized, cutting into my bare arse. I pulled out the label I’d been sitting on. The tracksuit was brand-new, and the price on the tag was astronomical. I tugged it off, crumpled it up and stuffed it into my pocket, not wanting to litter the spotless chi-chi decor.
    “I’m good, thanks,” I replied. The small talk would end soon, I knew; I felt the same cold clarity that used to fill my head when I ducked through the ropes into the ring, the adrenaline surge that made my calf muscles twitch.
    “I’m glad you were there when my boy needed you,” said McGovern. “And I’m grateful. But I’d really like to know how you got in, and what you’re after.”
    “I walked up to the front gate with an armful of branches,” I said. “I was