by Trevor Byrne
—Yeah?
I try to sound both noncommittal and curious. To be honest I don’t care how easy the job is, but I’m bleedin stuck now.
—Yeah, says Tommy. —Simple. Just doin the security in Landsdowne Road. Yeh know them fellas with the big yellow jackets at the football matches? It’s just that. Just watchin the game.
—Cool, I say to me mug, and a pigeon lands on the ledge on the other side o the glass. I can hear it cooin and its shape is all blurry and distorted.
Tommy jerks a thumb at the window. —Still got the loft?
—Yeah. Nothin in it though. Gino has them all out his own back.
—Course, yeah.
Tommy slurps at his tea then leans in towards me.
—Thing is, Den, the pay’s not great. But —
He shoots a glance left and right. Looks dodgy as fuck, like.
—Yeh can supplement it dead easy. Sellin stuff. Know wha I mean?
—In a stadium?
—Yeah. Teenagers and that. Just a bit o blow, like. Nothin hard.
I look into me mug, at the dregs o tea and milk, the chip in the handle. Then back at me would-be conspirator.
—Nah, Tommy. Seriously, man. I don’t deal.
Tommy sits back.
—Up to you. Yeh can just go straight, anyway. Just do the security. And we’re playin some shitty eastern European side next week so we’ve a decent chance o gettin a result.
I kind o shrug, like I’m mullin it over. I should just tell him no, straight out like.
—Here, do us a favour though, will yeh? says Tommy. —Mention it to Maggit and Pajo and that. Loads o places goin. Serious. Mostly fuckin Polish and that workin there, talkin fuckin gobbledegook, could do with a few locals yeh know?
I nod.
—So will yeh say it to the rest?
—Yeah, I’ll say it when I see them.
—And here, Denny. Tommy goes all quiet again. He scratches the side of his nose. —Yeh didn’t hear anythin about a load o charlie that went walkin, did yeh?
—Charlie?
—Yeah. Cocaine, like. Sneachta. No?
I shake me head.
—No. Yeh sure?
—Why? What’s up?
—Ah, nothin that won’t keep. Sure keep yer ears peeled anyway, yeah?
—Yeah.
Tommy looks up and he makes a face like he’s dyin or somethin. He nods his head. —There’s the missus, he says.
Tommy’s wife is standin at the top o the stairs. She’s small and she looks dead unhappy.
Tommy stands up and wipes his hands on his jeans.
—Here, I’ll see yeh soon so, Denny, he says. —Good luck. Give us a buzz if there’s anythin goin on in the gaff, yeah?
—Yeah. I will, yeah.
Tommy slaps me on the back then turns to his wife. They head down the stairs.
I mop up a few crumbs and listen to the rain again. There’s definitely more to Tommy askin me to deal than him bein concerned about me finances. Tommy’s not that bad, really, but Dommo and his mad mates are. I hop up and say see yeh to the fella behind the till and smile and nod and leave the clickin cups and the cooin pigeons and take the stairs one at a time.
*
I head down Grafton Street. No particular reason. Me body’s still tryin to get rid o those pills I took — I hate the feelin, the horrible shiveriness and a sense that yer body’s not yer own. I said to meself I’d stay away from stuff like that after the party but the whole Kasey business is after knockin me off track altogether.
The rain’s eased off now and there are a few buskers and performance artists and that linin the street — a young fella doin Beatles covers with his acoustic guitar and a woman standin dead still on a little box, eyes unblinking, her clothes and face all painted silver. I pass them by and cross the road to Stephen’s Green. I’m just at the gates when me phone rings again. UNKNOWN NUMBER. Fuck sake. I let it ring out and then it rings again, straight away. Ah, fuck it.
—Hello?
—Hello, Denny?
—Yeah. Who’s this?
—It’s yer da, Denny.
Fuckin hell. Knew I shouldn’t’ve answered. I haven’t spoken to me da since …
—Haven’t heard from you since the funeral, I say. It sounds like an accusation. Which it is, I suppose.
—Yeh OK, son?
—I’m grand, yeah.
—Yeh drinkin or somethin? Yeh sound a bit –
—I’m fine. What’s up?
—I’ve a bit o news for yeh.
God, me da’s stupid fuckin accent. Where does he get it from? He sounds like Ronnie Drew out o The Dubliners. I’m sure he didn’t always talk like this.
—Good or bad? I say.
—Good.
—G’wan. Is it about you and Irene?
—Were yeh talkin to someone?
—No. Is it?
—It is, yeah. We’re, em … we’re gonna get married.
—Congratulations.
—Jesus, don’t sound too happy.
—Congratulations, wharrever. Well done.
I step into the park. It’s fairly empty. I head for the little stream and stand there, a couple o ducks glidin by.
—We’d like yeh to be there, he says.
…
…
—I … I dunno, da.
—This has nothin to do with yer mother, Denny. We’re split up years. Yer mother could’ve gone with someone else if she’d –
—You fuckin left her, da.
…
…
—Where are yeh now? I say.
—The park.
Jesus. Not this one I hope.
—Which park?
—Stephen’s Green. Where’re you?
—Yeh on yer own?
—Yeah, he says. —Yeh at home?
—Yeah. Well … not in the house. Just out.
I start back towards the entrance o the park.
—So will yeh be there, Denny?
—Look da, I dunno. It’s too fuckin … I dunno. Here, someone I know’s callin me, I have to run.
—Have a think about it and give me a shout. —Bye, I say.
I look at the phone for a few seconds, then slip it back into me pocket. Gettin fuckin married? For fuck sake. The fuckin oulfella, wha? Movin on. I stand by the gate for a minute or so, temptin fate, thinking he’s gonna walk by any second. Why the fuck I’m doin this I don’t know. I don’t wanna see him. No chance. If I did I don’t know wha I’d do. Cry or shout or kick or laugh. No fuckin clue. And I don’t wanna know, either. He’s gone. He made the decision, not me. He’s fuckin history.
I take me phone out again, thumb in a text.
SORRY DA, THINK I’LL GIVE IT A MISS. ALL THE BEST WITH IT.
I look at it for a while, me thumb hoverin over SEND. Then I press it and watch until the MESSAGE SENT notification comes up. I don’t bother savin the number. I pocket me phone again and start the journey home.
*
In the van I start thinkin about me ma. The mad dances and voices she’d do to make me and Paula laugh. She always seemed dead different to other peoples’ mas. Other peoples’ mas seemed old, but my ma never did. I think of her sittin by the kitchen table, watchin jeans and t-shirts flappin on the line, whole worlds in her eyes. I wondered wha she was thinkin. I often did. She’s like me in that way, I suppose. Or I’m like her, always thinkin and wonderin. I remember I was about sixteen and me da had left the year before and I was flickin through the channels on the telly, past MTV and all these crappy music stations, when me ma said:
—Did yeh ever hear o Rory Gallagher?
—Did I ever hear of him?
—Yeah.
—The guitarist, like?
—Yeah.
—Wha about him?
—Ah, I was just wonderin would anyone your age know him.
—He’s on the Wall o Fame in Temple Bar with U2 and Sinead O’Connor and The Undertones and that, I said.
—Mm
m.
—Why? D’yeh like him?
—A fella I knew years ago was mad into him.
—Yeah?
—Yeah. Thomas. He died a few years ago. Well, I say a few … it was probably ten years ago now. More even. He liked me.
—Liked yeh?
—Well, yeh know wha I mean. This was years ago. Before I met yer da. His ma used to be always tryin to get us together. He was mad into music and he used to write poems and all this. He wasn’t like most o the other fellas from the estate. He wrote a poem for me. He gave it to yer auntie Denise and he asked her to give it to me. Denise read it and she was slaggin him, sayin, God, the state o yer man, writin poems. She couldn’t get her head round it. I thought it was nice, though.
—Did yiz go out?
—Ah no. He never asked me out or anythin. But I can see now that he liked me. Well, I knew back then as well, really. But nothin ever came of it. We were only kids. The same age as yerself.
—Wha happened to him?
—Ah, he got into drugs and all that. That oul heroin. He was one o the first. We never knew about AIDS at the time; he must o used a dirty needle. He got off the drugs eventually, he got himself together, but he was sick, although I don’t think he knew for a long time. No one knew about AIDS, any o the facts or anythin. People thought you could get it by standin too close to someone. I used to think that meself. I saw him sometimes in Ballyfermot over the years and he’d always ask about you.
—About me?
—Yeah. I bumped into him one time and you were only a baby. I had yeh in the pram. He was on a push bike. He still had his hair long, but it was after goin very grey. He was with a girl from Ballyfermot and he had a baby of his own, a girl, the same age as you. He asked me how was I and all this. Grand, I said. He didn’t know he was sick. He was happy.
—When was the last time yeh saw him?
—Well, I saw him around, like I said. He’d always stop and say hello and how’s Denny. Eventually I heard he was sick. It was startin to come out then — loads o the fellas and girls who were on heroin in the eighties were after gettin AIDS. As if the heroin wasn’t bad enough on its own. But I had all youse, I had me own life and he had his; I didn’t see much of him for a few years and then Denise told me he was dyin. His ma was after bumpin into Denise in Ballyfermot and she said would she ask me to go and see him in St James’s hospital, that he only had a few days to live.
—God.
—I didn’t know wha to do. I didn’t tell yer da; he’d have gone mad. I couldn’t believe his ma even remembered me. But I went. I got the bus. His girlfriend and his ma was there, they were in a special room. They have these rooms for families if someone’s dyin, with nice chairs and all this. His ma was in an awful state but she was delighted I came. His girlfriend was probably thinkin, who’s this? I felt horrible, like I shouldn’t be there. Like I was an intruder. His ma gave me a hug and said to his girlfriend that I was an old friend o Thomas and I went in to see him.
—Wha was he like?
—It was terrible. He was old-lookin. He was like an old man. He couldn’t see. Me heart was broke lookin at him. I just said, howayeh Thomas, and he smiled. He knew me voice. Howayeh Kate, he said. We didn’t say much else. He asked after you, though. I told him you were in school and great at English and Art and he said that was good, he was delighted; he said they were the best to be good at. I just held his hand and kissed his head. I was all over the place when I left.
—D’yeh still think about him now?
—Ah no. Well … sometimes, I suppose. Things remind yeh.
—Imagine yeh had o got with him instead o da.
—Ah no.
—I’m just sayin. It’s mad.
—Yeah. He was a lovely fella. Very gentle.
—Yid probably have been better off with him. If he was never on drugs and that.
Me da had left a year or so before. He was livin in Inchicore with a woman called Irene. They were carryin on for a while beforehand. I never really liked me da and I hated wha he did on me ma.
—Ah who knows? said me ma. —Sure I’m happy anyway.
—Yeh might o been happier.
Me ma shook her head and smiled. She took a sup of her tea. —I wouldn’t have you, Denny, she said.
—Don’t be a gobshite, ma, I said. She was embarrassin me. I had a funny relationship with her; it was OK to swear at each other.
—Well, if I’m a gobshite, you’re a son of a gobshite, she said, and laughed. —That’s worse.
We looked at each other. I remember realisin that I loved her very much, that I loved her to a frightenin degree, puttin the words together in me head with a feelin that’d always been there. That always would be there.
FIRE AND WATER
I feel compelled to go upstairs. I can’t help it. I take the steps slowly, and I can feel every muscle in me legs, every sinew and tendon. I have this mad sensation of meself as a mass o tiny bits and parts all pullin together. I get to the top and look at the open bathroom door for a few seconds, look at the floor where Kasey’s body was, the tap still runnin, and then I turn and walk down the hall, towards me ma’s room. I open the door and go in. It’s neat enough, pretty much the same as before she died; the pictures o me and the rest o the kids on the walls, the little jewellery box in front o the mirror. Slaughter’s never been in here, nothin bad’s ever happened here. I pass by her bed and cross the room to the window.
I look out across the green and the factories and shops are gone. It’s like it was years ago, cept there’s a two hundred foot tall horse cantering there, tossin its head, its shadow huge, fallin across fully grown trees. It rears up on its hind legs, titanic and wild, and it whinnies and –
*
Glass smashes. Me head’s spinnin and I’m still drunk when I sit up on the bed, fully dressed, me T-shirt damp. Me clock says it’s quarter past three in the mornin. Don’t remember fallin asleep or goin to bed or anythin, everythin’s all blurry in me head; visions o Paula and Teresa in me head, a few drinks for Kasey, somethin like that. There’s voices comin from downstairs, a mad fuckin commotion. I can hear Paula shoutin. I stumble through the dark to the door, me heart thumpin and me head still spinnin. Me mouth is parchment fuckin dry.
I pull the hurley from under me bed then open the door and step out onto the landin, men’s voices below mixin with Paula’s and Teresa’s and … Charly, is it? Yeah, I remember now — Charly called round and we had a few drinks in honour o Kasey cos the girls won’t be able to make the funeral. I hurry downstairs, trippin on the last step and fallin into the coat rack, then into the sittin room and fuckin hell there’s a huge hole in the front window, the night air blowin in and glass everywhere, glitterin. Paula and Teresa and Charly are standin at the opposite end o the room.
—The fuck’s goin on?
—Someone put the window through, says Teresa, her face drained o colour.
There’s people in the garden. Teresa starts pokin at her mobile, her hands shakin. There’s shoutin and laughter from outside.
—Get that fuckin jungle bunny out here!
Charly looks terrified and Paula looks furious.
—The fuckin bastards, she says. —If they think they can fuckin scare me in me own home –
She heads for the hallway.
—Paula, wha are yeh –
But she opens the front door and steps outside. I follow her, the night cold pricklin me bare chest and arms, me heart goin a hundred and ninety. There’s a gang o fellas, six or seven o them, laughin and shoutin in the garden. Slaughter’s with them, the mental fuck, with a mad, unhinged smile on his face and a can o Bulmers in his hand.
—Here’s the fuckin dyke, he says, his mates cheerin him on. —And here’s her brother. Although I’d say he’d fuckin love to get into her knickers. Wouldn’t yeh Denny?
I wanna say somethin but nothin comes out. I’m fuckin shittin here. I grip the hurley till it hurts. I shouldn’t be holdin this, though. Gino or Shane should
. Wha the fuck use am I?
—Sure the last time I saw this cunt, says Slaughter, to his mates I suppose but lookin straight at me, —I was on the job with this fuckin cracker of a bird, had her bent over the bed and everythin, she was gaggin for it. And who should walk in only Captain fuckin Farrell here. Probably watchin through the fuckin keyhole the little –
—Get the fuck out o this garden, says Paula.
Slaughter takes a sup from his Bulmers. —Get that fuckin nigger hooer out o this fuckin estate more like, says Slaughter, almost gleefully. —Or here, tell me, d’yeh like them black?
Paula looks at me, then turns back to the lads. —Were youse lot born fuckin male or did yiz get yer dicks off the medical card? she says.
The lads whoop and laugh. I recognise another couple o faces; the two fellas from the bus that time, still in their blue and red bomber jackets, like they’ve never changed since that day. They eye me as I step towards Paula.
—I said get the fuck off o me property, says Paula.
—Show us yer tits, someone says, the provincial fuckin wit.
—Get yer girlfriend out!
—Yeah, give us a show love!
—Nah, hang on lads, says Slaughter. —I have a present for her, he says, and he unzips his fly and gets out his dick, then takes hold of it and flops it around. This is fuckin mental.
—Look, I say. —We’re gonna –
—D’you want some as well, says Slaughter, grinnin, and it’s only now I realise he’s stoned, wrecked, completely fuckin gone, his eyes glazed and the pupils huge, nearly swallowin his irises. This is serious, man. This is dodgy as fuck. A car passes on the other side o the green, glidin off into the night, oblivious. Me heart’s goin apeshit and inside me head is buzzin, cracklin, totally fuckin overloaded with drink, adrenaline, fear, the lot.
—Where’s the jungle bunny, says Slaughter. —Does she like white cock?
Slaughter’s crew laugh and whoop, one o them, a skinny fella in a Nike tracksuit, brayin like a fuckin donkey.
—She’s from fuckin Dublin, says Paula. —She’s as entitled to be here as you.
—Me fuckin hole she is. She’s fuckin black.
—I won’t say it again, says Paula. —Get. The fuck. Out.
Jesus, Paula, shut the fuck up.
