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Sol can either go to the dentist, or play poker with an old friend

By prospect   August 2006

It was a Monday, early June. In the kitchen of Smyth’s the Belfast bookmakers, two men sat on late lunch. Sol, forty-four, with a long face, a small mouth and a chin with a dimple that he hated, was rooting in his lunchbox for the treat Iris would have included. He found it and pulled it out.

“Ah, Twix again,” said Maurice, the other man.

He pointed at the single finger in its shiny wrapper that Sol was holding. Maurice was sixty, had a bony face and small grey eyes.

“Strictly speaking that can’t be a Twix; not if…

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