‘Fuck, Joe, sorry,’ he says, running his two hands up over his face, ripples of skin facelifted up and released as his fingers make their way through his hair. ‘I didn’t want to be getting into any of this,’ he leans himself back, a deep sigh caught under his breath, ‘just watch your fucking house, yeah,’ and I can feel the air around him shifting now, all heavy, and wanting.
‘I need to talk about him,’ he says. I won’t meet his longing. ‘Joe, son. I need you to tell me, your Ma just can’t,’ he says again, and the catch of emotion warbling at his throat, making its way to mine, is too much. Him trying to break me, bleed in under my surfaces, I don’t need to tell him shit. About those days, where he was nowhere to be seen. Locked the fuck up. I’m not about to fill in the blanks so he can sleep a little better at night.
‘I need to know, how it was for him, in the end,’ and his voice is trapped, all ragged and stale. His left hand is on the Perspex now, pressed tight against it, the length of his lifeline deep red sprawled there in front of me, and I wonder is it all mapped out, life, before we even get here, life, how it’s going to be for us, life, and I look down at my own.
‘All this shit, going round in my head, I’m fucking telling you, Joe, it’s far worse than anything you could tell me.’ He’s straightening up, tightening his jaw, bracing himself for me and my truth.
‘Nothing,’ I say, holding the receiver of that phone so tight that it is throbbing the veins at my wrist. ‘Absolutely fucking nothing you have imagined in your head is even close to the reality of watching what happened to him,’ I say. ‘Knowing that nothing you do will make any fucking difference. Having to just sit there and take it. What the fuck would you know about any of that?’ I push my chair, drop the receiver to dangling.
‘Joe,’ a silent mouth.
‘Joe,’ a more forceful silent mouth but I’m up and out, not even a second glance given. Not fucking deserved.
I should have known better.
Finn
Back home, and I couldn’t wait to see Joe and sleep in my bed, and see all my friends, and go straight back to school, catching up on all the things that I missed. He had the flat all done up, Joe did, with posters, and streamers, and welcome home balloons, and a big ‘Miss You’ card from school in the centre of the table, with sweets and crisps, and pizzas and Coke. Just like my birthday. But better, because getting to come home was so much more.
‘I hope you like it, Finney,’ he said. I scoffed into the pizza, horsed it into me after three days of cabbage, mash and ham, or carrots, mash and chicken, or all sorts of other meat and two veg variations, but all tasting the same anyway.
‘You not having any?’ I asked, and I saw that he just kept looking, like he was afraid to come near. ‘You can’t catch it, honest,’ I said, ‘Dr Kennedy promised me that,’ and he ran over to give me a hug.
‘Don’t ever, ever think that I would think that. Ever,’ he said, and spun me around till I was dizzy. Nearly sick with the pizza still in me mouth.
‘Ah get off,’ I said, laughing, spraying a bit of pizza, not meaning to mind. He took up a big slice, and sat down beside me on the couch.
‘How come you didn’t come in to see me?’ I asked, now that he had stopped staring, now that he was relaxed on the couch. ‘I know you were in, Dr Kennedy said you were in to get your bone marrow checked. To see was it a match.’ He kept his head down.
‘I didn’t want to see you in there,’ he said after a while. ‘It would make it all too real.’ He was about to say something else too, but I didn’t think I wanted to hear it.
‘Well, I’m glad you got to feel the pain of that big fecker of a needle too,’ I said, and he started to laugh, relieved to be off the hook.
‘Jaysus, the size of that yoke,’ he said, ‘you’d better not be needing it now, my bone marrow, because that thing hurt like a bitch,’ he nudged.
‘Well I won’t, this chemo thing is going to kill it all, wait till you see,’ and a shadow came over him; I couldn’t read him like I usually could. I was glad he hadn’t come to see me.
The doorbell rang, on, off, on, off, no rest for the wicked like. It was Jasmine, who took a running jump onto the couch, on top of me.
‘I thought they’d keep you in for ages,’ she said, still not letting go of me. ‘Do you not have to stay for ages when you have cancer?’ she asked again. I could see Ma wince, and Jasmine’s Ma ready to pounce. Jasmine’s Ma had a chicken curry in her hand and a bottle of wine, and her and Ma made space for themselves at the table, huddled into their own conversation. Joe was over by the DVD player, putting in Star Wars, I think, and Jasmine leaned herself in closer to me.
‘Is your hair going to fall out?’ she asked, concern all over her face.
‘Yeah, probably, and my eyelashes and eyebrows too.’ Her look was pure horror, and I busted my hole laughing, then so did she, nearly crying she was laughing so much.
‘Jaysus, you’re going to look freaky as shit,’ she said, ‘like one of those alien thingies that you grow in slime.’ We were laughing again. And I couldn’t wait to get back to school. Back to being me again. Back to being normal.
Joe
‘Cheers Annie, ta love,’ and I see him there, with a mug in hand, Ma putting out a plate of biscuits, him putting his feet up on the coffee table beside them. Fucking Dessie Murphy, in all his Badger glory.
‘Here he is, the prodigal son.’ He gives me a wink and takes a big slurp of his tea. ‘Come over here to me sure, tell me all the sca.’ He’s still slurping away, dipping a digestive, sucking the tea out of it before melting it into his mouth. A bit of the crumb is stuck to his moustache and beard; he gives it a good wipe of his arm, the smear of crumb now stuck to his burgundy woollen sleeve instead.
I don’t move; I stay where I am at the jamb of the bedroom door.
‘Any word on when he might be out,’ Ma interrupts, used to defusing tension around me, used to stepping herself in.
‘I’m on it, love,’ he says, not taking his eyes off me, his dunk and slurp mocking from the couch. ‘We’ve got the loophole now, so any day,’ and that’s what he does. He knows every technicality, every glitch, every loophole ready to be prised wide open when needed, and he always gets his way. If he wants it.
‘But I’ll have a word with Joe now, Annie,’ his stare still fixed on me. The childhood memories of sweets and money and packets of crisps tinged with the sword-edged cut to him. Everyone knew that there was no such thing as a rumour when it came to Dessie Murphy; what you heard was most definitely what you got.
‘Now, Annie.’ The boom of his voice echoes the room; he is still sat in the same position, slurping the same tea, wearing the same burgundy machine-knit cardigan, and it’s hard to imagine that boom was him at all.
‘I’ll head into town, get a few bits so.’ She grabs her shopping bag from the press. I can see the white clench of her knuckles, the tight set of her jaw, and oh how I know she would love to tell Dessie to fuck the right off.
‘That’s the girl,’ he says, lifting his mug for another slurp.
Ma is standing at his back, looking like she’s going to say something, waiting there, about to say something, her mouth half open forming around her invisible words; no one gets away with calling Ma love, or girl, or honey. It’s fucking Annie, she’d say, but she picks up her purse and pulls the door behind her.
I keep my position at the jamb of the door, keep my arms folded, a barrier between him and me.
‘You’re very like your Da was at your age, has anyone ever told you that.’ He sets his mug and feet down, leans his elbows on his knees, pushes himself forward to get a better look at me. Taking in the Da in me. Hoping for the Da in me. Trying to break into me, and my armour.
‘Yeah, well you do,’ he says, not waiting for my reply, ‘he had the same stubborn prick of a head on him too, so he had.’ He lifts his head back, laughing to fuck at himself with his metallic back fillings on show. I just wish he’d get on with it, whatever it is
that he came here to say.
‘I heard they took you in the other night.’ Here we are, straight to the point. I don’t say anything at all, don’t move, don’t flinch, don’t give him the satisfaction that I am in the slightest bit concerned about what he does and doesn’t know about me. But the palms of my hands are beginning to sweat and a buzzing is starting its low insistent hammering in my ears. He’s up now, making his way towards me, placing his hand just over my head, shadowing me with his bulk.
‘Lucky you were able to get my gear sold before they came, eh.’
Fucking Carthy and his big fucking mouth. He bends into me now, as close as he can, his sour warm breath all over my face, heating it, making it wilt.
‘It was for Sabine,’ I say, trying to make myself sound assured, confident, but the shake of nerves cannot be mistaken.
He inches in closer. Saying nothing, but suffocating my personal space, with that bulk, with that sour breath, waiting for me to say something, to reveal something, to trip myself up in my own guilt. I’ve seen him do this before, watched as his lackeys squirmed under his gaze, pleaded with him, admitted guilt, made excuses for what they did, without him ever having to say one word, all just from the intimidation of his gaze. But I’m not sure what it is he is looking for from me, what trap it is he’s hoping I’ll fall into.
‘To clear her debt,’ I say again, a little more confident this time, his gaze still intense, still unfaltering. ‘I couldn’t be done for anything anyway, I had none on me when I was arrested.’ He catches my baby finger, digs pressure right into the nerve of the nail, pushes it right back till he hears it crack, then pushing more, shooting a sharp intense pain right up and down my arm.
‘Lesson one, sonny, you never say anything when questioned. Fucking never,’ the pure torrent of anger coming off him in waves. ‘You should know better than that. Fucking never, hear me, Joe.’ I nod, trying not to let him see the agony, trying not to let it show even a little, but the tears now stinging, prickling at my eyes, have another story to tell. He lets go eventually; I pull it back quick, too quick, cradling it into me; he gives a little laugh.
‘Don’t worry, I’m leaving,’ he says, moving away from the door, grunting as he straightens himself back to full height, rubbing his hand at the base of his back. ‘Jaysus, getting old. Don’t ever get old, Joe, it’s a fucking balls.’ He walks around to the front door, his mask of joviality firmly back in place.
‘You’ll need to start thinking carefully, about what you’re doing, son.’ The reminiscing pleasantries are over just like that.
‘You need to start thinking of your Ma, and that girl, Sabine.’ I melt back into the frame of the door, letting its splintered edges dig into my spine.
‘I can offer you stuff around here that no one else can. I can make sure you keep the flat, pay the bills,’ he says, ‘but sure you already know that,’ he smirks.
‘Your Da knew what to do,’ and where the fuck did that get him, I want to shout.
‘He always knew what was best. For all,’ and he opens the door.
‘Well, I’ll be seeing you, Joe,’ he says, nearly all the way out.
‘I’ll be in the Tavern later, yeah,’ and he pulls the door to nearly closed.
‘Oh, and I’m the one who’ll be fucking telling you when young Sabine’s debt is paid,’ and he slams it firm, leaving me there, with his threats still fresh in the air.
Finn
In the middle of the floor, sat on the broken wooden stool with a towel around me neck and newspapers spread open at the feet.
‘Are ya sure about this now, Finn?’ Joe asked again, for about the hundredth time.
‘Just get on with it,’ I said, ‘I’d prefer you to be the one to take it.’ Cancer was taking enough of me, thank you very much, and anyway, I always wanted to try Da’s clippers. Ma would never let anyone near me with them – ‘No one will be shaving those curls off ya,’ she said, and no one wanted to push that warning. That’s for sure.
‘Well, I’ll start with a number two, see what ya make of it.’
‘Number two? No, feck that, I want it all off, honestly, I want you to do it.’ I said it stronger this time, no laugh in there, so he would take me seriously, know that it had to be him. That this was the way that I wanted it. The only way that it could be.
‘Right, here we go so,’ Joe said, resting his hand first on my shoulder, showing me that it would be OK. I could hear the buzzing start right behind my ear, humming closer and closer to me.
‘I think this will do the job,’ he said, keeping it tight to my scalp, and cut one big stroke through the middle of my head, and then stopped. Why was he stopping?
‘Ha, Finn, sorry bud, I just have to get a look at this.’ He came and stood in front of me, admiring his handiwork.
‘Jaysus, Finn, the bleedin’ state of ya,’ he said; he had doubled over on himself, laughing.
‘Ah show us,’ I said, standing up, going to the mirror over the mantel. He was right. It was going to do the job all right. I looked mad. I had one bald streak, right through the middle, with me black curls either side.
‘I look like that clown from It,’ I said, now laughing with him. Creeping up behind him, with me mad bald streak. ‘Come on, finish it off before I change my mind,’ I said, hopping back down on the stool, careful not to tip the bockety leg. I closed my eyes as the rest of my hair fell in clumps, sticking to my face, and clothes, and shoes, and landed in piles all around me.
‘Right, I’m just going to go over it once more to be sure,’ Joe said, feeling around my head with his palm, checking for any telltale little stubs of spikes.
‘All right, sir, job done,’ Joe said with a bow, while rubbing the hair off me with the brush of his hand. I could hear the key in the door, the forced push of it, the swell of it making it trickier to open. I ran to pull the mat away; sometimes it got stuck, made it harder to get in.
It was Da. The look when he saw me, the hair on the floor and the razor on the stool, still plugged in.
‘I asked him, Da, to do it. I should have asked first.’ I was talking about his razor, his pride and joy, the one he used monthly to keep his own stubble neat and threatening. He grabbed me by the shoulders and shook me hard.
‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing,’ he said, hurt and anger and something else, fear in his eyes. ‘Jesus, look at the state of ya, people are going to start treating you different now, like a fucking invalid, is that what you want.’ He pushed me back; I stumbled, not prepared this time, like usual.
‘Lay off him, Da,’ Joe said, coming up closer, squaring up to him.
‘And I suppose it was you who did it, put him up to it?’ he said, spitting at Joe, anger now taking over from everything else. ‘You realise how you’re making him look.’ He moved closer to Joe. ‘You realise what you’ve fucking done.’ He was right in Joe’s face.
‘What, Da?’ Joe challenged. ‘What way have I made him look?’
I wished he hadn’t said anything. You should leave Da when he was like this. Joe knew he should be leaving it. But Joe wasn’t; he pushed, coming at Da.
‘What way have I made him look?’ Joe said again, louder this time, him the one getting into Da’s face. Da started to back off, a bit.
‘Like he has fucking cancer. Is that what you were going to say.’ Da has backed off completely now, like the dawning of the cancer has stubbed the anger right out.
‘Well, he fucking does have cancer, Da. This is him. This is how he looks now. You and Ma are tiptoeing around it, but he’s not. He’s ready to fight. Him. This is about him. Not Ma, not me, not fucking you.’ He grabbed his coat, and slammed out the door.
Da went into his bedroom. He couldn’t look me in the eye. One look at my head, reminding him that I wasn’t the same. That something was in me now, that he didn’t have any control over.
I shook the towel out from around my shoulders, got the brush from the side of the fridge, and began to sweep up the hair gathered all ove
r the floor, pushing the last of it into neat piles, ready to be discarded into the bin.
Joe
The rain is only hopping and I don’t even bother to shield it, let it drip right through. The barflies are out in their droves, blowing the stink of Guinness off of them, not giving a fuck about the rain either, hovering at the door of the Tavern, Fat Mick leaning in for the chat with them, opening the door as I approach, ‘Bad one tonight, bud’ following as I enter.
I make my way up to the bar, searching for the stool in the centre where I can get myself settled in, where I can watch the goings-on without being fully immersed. Yet. Then I spy her coming from the back room. Fuck.
‘I thought you said you were only doing days,’ I say, and Pat comes up behind her, the big delighted head on him.
‘She just couldn’t keep away,’ he says, spinning her around the bar, like the cat who caught the fucking cream.
‘Ah here, Pat, you’re after making me balls up the head of the pint.’
‘Sure fuck that, it’s only for bleedin’ Ned.’
‘I heard that and all so I did, ya bollox,’ Ned says from the table at the side of the bar, giving himself a perfect view of the match projecting from Pat’s new, heavily wall-bolted flat-screen, obstructing all with his chair right in the middle of the lounge. He wheels himself over and pulls at my sleeve, gesturing for me to come down to him.
‘But sure, isn’t it great to have her back, Joe, really fucking great,’ and it is. The shine of her is starting to come back, peeking through the tarnish, but she wasn’t supposed to be here, she wasn’t supposed to see me with him. Again.
‘Now go and bring us me pint, there’s a good lad, and make sure she puts a proper head back on it, ah sure tell her to make a fresh one.’ He wheels himself back into position.
Boys Don't Cry Page 9
