by Trevor Byrne
—Yeah, that’s grand. I’m after ringin round loads o places. Stuff in papers and that.
—We will seek to verify this.
—OK.
—Address?
—Wha? Em, I don’t know it like. I was never –
—Home address, Mr Cullen.
—Oh right, sorry. Yeah, it’s 26 Glennonfield Park, Clondalkin.
—Phone number?
—We’ve no phone.
—No landline?
—It’s cut off.
Thanks to big-gob Paula, o course.
—No phone.
—Yeah.
—OK. No phone. You have a bank account, Mr Cullen?
—Yeah, Bank of Ireland.
—Details.
—Em, I don’t have them with me. It’s the O’Connell Street branch.
The phone buzzes in me pocket again, another text. From Pajo I assume. I’ll have to wait to check it.
—We’ll need the details.
—Yeah, sound. I’ll sort that, no probs.
—Mm hm. OK. A letter from your parents.
—Wha?
—To verify your tenancy.
—A letter?
—Yes.
—Like, typed?
—Hand-written will do. Make sure it’s legible, signed by both your parents.
—Me da doesn’t live with us, he left years ago. I don’t see him.
—Your mother’s signature will be fine.
—Well, actually … me brother owns the house. It’s in his name.
—Your brother? I see. He’s the landlord?
—Well, kind o, yeah. It’s me ma’s house though, yeh know? Me da left ages ago and Shane paid off the mortgage. Me ma’s … em …
—Your brother legally owns the house?
—Yeah. I think so, anyway.
—You’ll need a letter from him then. Whoever owns the house.
—OK.
—Are you living alone?
—No. Em, me sister lives with me. And her, eh …
—Hmm?
Jesus. I hesitate over the word ‘girlfriend’.
—Well, her mate, like. A lodger or wharrever.
—OK. If you can get all that back to us this day next week please. Otherwise any prospective payments may be compromised.
—Right. Em, see yeh.
Yer man nods and flips through a cardboard box o files.
—Thanks, I say.
Fuckin hell. I stand up. I’m actually sweatin. Can yeh believe that? Fuckin grill yeh to death, these pricks. I squeeze out past the thrummin, impatient crowd o local single mothers, Poles and Slovakians, Africans, Dublin desperadoes in jeans and tracksuits and men of indeterminate Eastern European ethnicity and heave in a huge gulp of air when I get outside. A 76 zooms past. Don’t know how I didn’t notice it before but the side wall o the Mill shoppin centre is sprayed with VICTORY TO THE IRAQI INTIFADA in huge letters. Deadly, wha? All them dry-shite dole office workers havin to stare at pro-insurgency propaganda all day.
I start towards Boss Hogs and then I remember the text from Pajo. I lean against the wall and thumb through me messages.
FELL DOWN THE STAIRS. QUADRICEPS DESTROYED. CAN YOU PICK US UP SOME BANDAGES AND ICE OR PEAS. THANKS. :(P.
*
I pull open the greasy oven door and have a peek inside and, fair enough, I’m no expert or anythin, but there’s definitely somethin weird lookin about that chicken. Too wrinkly or somethin. It looks like the head of a baldy oulfella, if he’d no face or ears or anythin, and he was roasted up and blistered and –
Fuck, that’s a bit of a weird thing to think, isn’t it? Intrusive thoughts, them. That’s wha me ma used to say. I remember sittin beside her on the 78a, comin home from me nanny Cullen’s. I was about fifteen; I was playin for Ballyfermot United and I dropped into me nanny’s after trainin and me ma was there as well, the room wreathed in cigarette smoke. Maggit played for Ballyfermot as well but he wasn’t there that night, he was off with Bernadette. Me and me ma hopped on the bus outside the Gala. I was still in me football shorts. When the bus pulled up outside Cherry Orchard hospital a few stops later there was an oulfella with a cane standin there, his trousers too small for him and his skinny hairy ankles showin.
—Imagine he just flew up into the air, me ma said. —Up into the sky like a rocket.
I loved when she said things like that. Mental, out o the blue things.
—Or imagine he was flyin alongside the bus, I said. —He was right beside the window and he was flyin like he was sittin down, but he had no chair or anythin.
—And then he got sucked under the wheels and he was killed, me ma said. She looked at me and she was holdin in the laughter. —Jesus that’s terrible isn’t it? she said. —That’s intrusive thoughts.
We looked at each other for a few seconds and then we laughed, the two of us, like fuckin lunatics. I couldn’t stop meself. I laugh now, thinkin of it, lookin at me freaky, baldy-headed roast.
The chickens on the telly don’t look like that. But fuck it, it’s not like this is Master Chef. I asked Maggit and Pajo and me mate Ned and his new girlfriend Sinead over. We’re havin chicken instead o turkey though cos turkey’s a bit dear. Paula said she’d give me a hand but I told her it’s cool, I can handle it. Course, I’m startin to regret that now, but … ah, so wha. They’re all in the front room, laughin and singin. Ned brought over a stack o dodgy Christmas compilation CDs he’s tryin to shift and I can hear Cliff Richard croonin about mistletoe and wine in the front room, much to everyone’s approval. I mean, I fuckin hate Sir Cliff, sanctimonious prick that he is, but at Christmas … well, it’s cool, like. Or as cool as it can be, since ma’s not here. Meself and Paula got the decorations down from the attic this mornin and did the place up proper. Old cards, decades old, some o them, sent by friends and relatives long dead, hangin in chains on the walls, tinsel tacked to the shelves and the doors. The tree’s up and everythin, and that sparkly snowman Mrs Cunningham next-door got me ma last year, jiggin and jivin on top o the microwave. Maggit said it was a bit Father Ted-lookin when he saw it, a bit tacky like.
I’m pokin at the bubblin mass of anaemic-lookin sprouts when Paula sticks her head round the door. Cigarette smoke and whooped laughter tumbles in behind her and she smiles at me.
—Yeh OK in here? she says. —D’yeh need a hand?
—I’m grand.
I look in the oven again.
—Here, is that chicken a bit weird lookin to you?
Paula comes in. She takes off her paper crown, sets her cigarette on the edge o the table and has a look.
—Ehmmm … no. No, it’s grand.
She looks up and smiles. I must look worried or unconvinced or somethin cos she says:
—It’s fine, Denny.
—Cool. Are yeh sure?
—Yeah. Definitely. Here, have yeh been bastin it, though?
—Bastin it?
I take a drag from her cigarette and blow the smoke sideways from me mouth. There’s a cheer from inside and the CD’s switched off. Then the telly’s volume is pumped and that high-pitched Walkin in the Air song starts to blare.
—The Snowman’s on, Denny, Pajo shouts from the livin room. He sounds dead excited. His leg’s wrapped up after his fall. I believe Pajo when he says he took a spill, but I reckon the only reason he said his quadriceps is fucked is that Triple H, the wrestler, had that injury a while ago, and it’s stuck in his mind — Pajo’s bruised leg therefore becomin a blown quadriceps.
—I’ll be in in a minute, I say, over me shoulder, then turn back to Paula and the wrinkly bastard of a chicken.
—What should I o been doin? I say.
Paula sticks her crown back on. —Yeh get the juices out o the tray and squeeze it onto the back o the chicken, she says, mimin the suckin up and splurgin out o fatty juices. —To keep it moist and that. And for the flavour.
—Shite. I didn’t know yid to do that.
I’m a bit ragin, now. I want this
to go well.
—Is it fucked or wha?
It is. I know it is. Fuckin old man’s head.
—Ah no, says Paula. She grabs her cigarette and heads back for the livin room. —Might be a bit dry, that’s all. But sure they’re used to nothin in there. She jerks a thumb at the rest o them in the livin room. —They’d eat a baby’s arse through the rungs of a fuckin cot.
Fuck it, man. It’ll be the best dinner that pack o delinquents have had in donkeys. Well, cept for Sinead who’s got money, but there yeh go.
—Are yeh nearly done, then? she says. —What’ll I say to them?
—Em…
I look at the chicken again. The bones where his feet used to be are gone black. But besides that, and the wrinkliness, it looks nice enough. Well, not un-nice, anyway. Fuckin do, like. I switch off the oven.
*
Maggit’s holdin his bottle o wine by the neck, a chickenleg in his other hand. He’s back on his detox, apparently. His selection box from Ned’s stall is on the window ledge, waitin to be scoffed.
—So anyway, says Maggit, a runner o red dribblin from his chin. Dunno if it’s wine or chicken juice or wha. Looks a bit like blood, actually. —Me da used to have this thing where if yeh went down too early for yer presents he’d storm down and bate yeh and send yeh back to bed. Which was fuckin crap cos then yid seen yer presents but they’d be robbed back off yeh and yid a raw arse to lie on for another few hours. Fuckin prick he was.
I top up me glass with the wine Sinead brought over. Nice stuff, actually. Fruity, like. Don’t usually like red wine. Sinead’s nice as well. She’s quiet, like, and a bit posh, but she’s sound. Her hair’s black and it’s done in braids. Ned’s sittin beside her. He’s mad into her, yeh can tell to look at him.
—Mad random fucker, like, says Maggit. —When he’d a few drinks especially, the fuckin dipso bastard.
A bit o rain spatters against the kitchen window. Ned drapes his arm around Sinead’s shoulders. Paula’s up sortin out the crackers, her head angled back towards us, grinnin. Teresa had to work late so she’s not here. I’ll save her somethin for when she gets back, though.
—So anyway, says Maggit —This one year me and Pajo scouted the whole house out before the big day. Reconnaissance, like. Every dodgy floorboard and stair, we marked it down in Pajo’s homework copy. We even put an oul sock in the bedroom door so it wouldn’t close all the way and then make a load o noise when we opened it again. So come one o’ clock me and Pajo sneak out o bed and creep down the stairs. Not a sound, like. Fuckin James Bond job. We didn’t have the copybook with all the plans in it cos we’d lost it a few days before but fuck that like, we knew every fuckin inch off by heart at that stage. So we got into the sittin room and it’s deadly. Yeh know how it is when yer small. All the presents and that, it’s the best fuckin day o yer life. I got this big Manta Force yokeybob and Pajo had some … wha was it?
—Wrestlin stuff, says Pajo. —Bret Hart and Hulk Hogan and all. The big rubbery ones. And a deadly ring for them. The proper WWF one.
—And Jake the Snake, I say. —Didn’t yiz used to have him?
Pajo nods. —Yeah. I lost his snake though. It fell down the shore. I was ragin.
—Yeah so anyway, says Maggit. —There we were playin away, the tree all sparkly and the cards everywhere and wrappin paper on Pajo’s head and wha happens? Me da comes in — fuckin sneaks in like; we never heard a fuckin sound, the sleeveen fuckin shite — and he whacks me full force in the back o the head with the bleedin leg o ham for the Christmas dinner. The leg o fuckin ham!
Ned whoops.
—Jesus, says Sinead. —That’s horrible.
—Tell me about it, says Maggit, rubbin the back of his neck like it’s still sore, twenty years later. —And then he pulls out Pajo’s copybook and says thanks for the tips, lads, gives Pajo an almighty smack in the arse and chases us back up the stairs, the two of us roarin cryin.
We burst into hysterics. Pajo makes that funny hissin noise he makes instead o laughin, his shoulders shuckin up and down. We all look at each other, eyes glintin, happy. I cut off another slice o wrinkly-lookin but quite-nice-actually chicken and everythin’s grand until Sinead says:
—That’s child abuse, that is.
Pajo coughs. We all look at Sinead.
Silence.
—No, I’m serious, she says. —You could get done for that. Should get done for it, actually. If everyone just –
—Ah no, says Maggit. —It was only me da, like.
—That doesn’t make it right, says Sinead.
We stop lookin at Sinead and look at each other instead, and then closely inspect our peas and beans or half-empty wine glasses. Child abuse? That’s a bit much, like. When it’s yer own da …
I fork a roastie and Bing Crosby’s dreamin of a white Christmas and I reckon we’re all thinkin o smacked arses and whacked necks, and how it all meant fuck all in the end. Par for the course really, isn’t it?
No one says anythin for a few seconds, then Ned says:
—Ye of the un-smacked arse, wha? Me middle-class darlin.
He grins at her, then puts on a husky Darth Vader voice:
—Welcome to the dark side, Sinead.
DENZERINO
I tilt me head and smile a big unnatural smile and … sweet fuck all. I wait a few more seconds … still nothin.
I glance down at the pair o fluffy granny boots shufflin on the other side o the curtain, then look back at the screen, me reflection in the glass still grinnin its now strained, slightly mental-lookin grin. Me hair’s gettin a bit long, it’s curly and it grows up more than down. It’s startin to look a bit like an afro. I don’t know where I get that from, both me ma and da have straight hair. Well, they did have straight hair; me da’s gone baldy. I push me hair back from me forehead and inspect me hairline. It’s still grand. For now.
A shock o white sears me eyes and when I open them there’s two pulsin globes bobbin in me vision. I slowly stand up and pull aside the greasy curtain and stumble back into the world. Which is to say, the fruit and vegetable aisle in the new Tesco on Ballyfermot Road. The picture booth in Liffey Valley is broke so I ran the car up to Ballyfermot. Gino’s mate shifted it a couple o days ago. Took a whole day to clean the shite and straw out and yeh can still smell it. Pajo’s got the chickens out his and Maggit’s back garden. He’s delighted with them. And me, as well, I’m delighted — tellin yeh, it’s deadly just bein able to jump in the car. No more fuckin 78a.
Class.
Gettin on, yeh know. Gettin ahead. Feel in a deadly mood today. I need two passport photos to register with this agency I dropped into yesterday, in Clondalkin village. I’m startin to consider gainful employment. Well, I’ll fill out the forms and see how it goes.
There’s two grannies chattin to each other across the aisle, one gesticulatin at the other with a bent and hairy lookin carrot, like she’s some mental, geriatric conductor. There’s an earthy tang o dirt and both o the grannies are speakin quick and clipped, the old school Dublin innercity machinegun twang me nanny Cullen used to have. The carrot-less granny turns and looks at me, smilin.
—Ah, she says. —Gettindoulpassportpichers.
I nod and smile back, blinkin hard; me eyes are still a bit fucked. I glance back at the oul photo booth. I know the pictures are gonna be useless but I’m after spendin a fiver on them so I’m not leavin them there.
—Gosomewherefoddin, son, says the granny with the carrot, and she points the wonky vegetable vaguely (I assume) in the direction o some foreign hotspot.
—Somewherewirrabirrasunshine, says the other one.
—Not actually goin anywhere like, I say. —Just gettin the photos done.
They look at each other and nod sagely, eyes closin slowly and openin again.
—Forrajob, says the granny with the carrot, and the two o them nod again. —Teddiblehardtogerrajobthesedays.
—Ohgodyeahjaysis, speciallywirralldemfoddiners.
The carrot-
less granny reaches to her left without turnin her head and scrabbles at a pile of apples, her wrinkly hand lightin quickly on one apple and then another. The old, spotty hand closes round an unlucky yellow and she plucks it up and drops it into a cellophane bag, then expertly flips it and twists it and places it into her otherwise empty trolley.
—Millionsodempolishaswell. Neverseendalikes.
There’s a clunk from the booth, followed by a whirrin sound. The photos are warm and slightly sticky. Most o me face is obscured by me hand and the one visible eye is red and demonic lookin. Not as bad as I’d thought they’d be, but still crap. I stuff them into me jeans pocket.
—See yiz, I say to the grannies, and head for the booze aisle.
—Enjoydaholliers, one o them says.
*
Cheerios, multivitamins, potatoes (small bag), steak and kidney pie (x2), three-for-two Chicago Town pepperoni pizzas, marked down toffee cheesecake (has to be eaten tonight), packet o digestives, family pack o Monster Munch, tray o frozen chicken fillets, milk (two litres, semi-skimmed — Paula won’t drink the full fat stuff), bag o Granny Smiths, huge box o Lyons tea bags, king prawns for Teresa (they have the faces on, and their legs and everythin; I reckon if yeh eat something’s whole body like that yeh gain their memories — no prawns for me, so), two bottles o cheapo red wine, Guinness six-pack (cans), Budweiser six-pack (bottles), a large bottle o Smirnoff and four Christmas tree-shaped air freshener things for the car. I know I shouldn’t really be gettin all this drink in (usin mostly Teresa’s money, as well) but wha can yeh do? Sit in and stare at the telly all night? Yeh need the option o drink, even just as a fallback.
There’s a woman in the queue in front o me, oldish but with a nice figure, her trolley filled with things I’d never buy. It’s mad when yeh see that, stuff other people buy at supermarkets. Tinned pears, a tub o Elmlea whole cream. Things I’d never think o buyin.
While she’s payin for her stuff I keep lookin at her hands: they’re dead elegant lookin, the skin milky pale and the nails red and immaculate. The mad thing is that facewise (and I’m not slaggin here, just sayin) she’s in rag order, all clown style make-up and hairy moles and saggy skin. Why lavish all that attention on yer hands and none on yer face? The mug of a sixty-year-old prostitute and the hands of a faerie queen. The people yeh see. She pays with a card and steers her bagged shoppin towards the exit.
