“We all want that,” Alfie agreed, “and in this business it’s a hard thing to find.”
“She’s after shackin’ up with Bud Brady,” Jerry announced. “He’s a bit of a quare hawk.”
“He’s a bit of a mystery man,” Roy added. “Where’s he getting the money from? The son-of-a-bitch didn’t do a day’s work since he came back from England. He plays golf. He’s laughing at us all boy—laughing at the fools.”
“Living off the state again,” Denny said bitterly. “We’re working and paying taxes to keep bastards like him in luxury.”
“The bandy-legged whore!” Jimeen repeated with venom.
“How’s the country able to keep going at all?” Jerry asked, with a hint of irony. “The working man is being screwed the whole time. Bud and his likes could be drawing free money in several places. I don’t know, there’s something wrong somewhere.”
“You know something else,” Roy said, “if you brought in a dozen German businessmen they’d do a better job at running the bloody country than that shower of gobshites up there in the Dail. Do you know that?”
“You mightn’t be too far wrong at all,” Alfie agreed.
“It’s the truth,” Roy emphasized. “They’re all the same—useless…“
“Anyway, you know what we were discussing, Jimeen, before you came in—we were debating about who was the best player Alex Ferguson bought since he took over at Manchester United? Who would you say now? You’re well up on those things.”
“There were a few. Straight away, Eric Cantona springs to mind.”
“He’d be my choice,” Roy agreed.
“Then you have Keane, Giggs, Ferdinand,” Jimeen continued. “Ronaldo would be up there.”
“What about Rooney?” Gerry queried.
“God, you’re right, Rooney is a right one. Still, in my opinion Peter Schmeichel was the best player Ferguson ever bought.”
“That’s what I said,” Alfie declared. “Good man, Jimeen.”
“One goalkeeper would say that about another, wouldn’t he?” Roy grinned. “Jimeen, do you know the difference between Peter Schmeichel and you?”
Jimeen braced himself for some smartassed comment, and he wasn’t disappointed.
“Schmeichel stopped the ball with his hands.”
All laughed at this remark except Jimeen.
“Sssh,” Alfie said, “they’re giving out the Lotto numbers. Where’ll I get a piece of paper?” He rummaged.
The announcer called out the Lotto Plus and the Lotto Plus Two first. Then she announced: “Now we have the main prize for tonight which is a whopping three million, two hundred thousand, three hundred and seventy-two euro. And good luck to you all. Here now are the numbers drawn… the first one out is number ten, uimhir deich… the second out is number thirteen, thirteen lion… the third number out is number seventeen, seacht lion.”
“I have three anyhow,” Jimeen said to himself.
“The fourth lucky number is number twenty-three, uimhir twenty tri,”
“I have four.” He was getting excited now.
“… and now the fifth one out is number thirty one, uimhir thirty aon”
“Jesus, keep going, keep going!”
“… and the final number for this evening is number thirty-six, uimhir trioca se.”
“I have them!” Jimeen said to himself in awe. “I have them.”
He hardly heard the announcer saying, “And the bonus number is forty-one, agus ta an lion bonus forty aon.”
Jimeen felt the blood drain from his face. He’d won the Lotto! His hands started to tremble. He looked around him. Everything appeared normal. “Stay calm, Jimeen,” he said to himself, “Stay calm.” He felt his heart thumping. His normal heartbeat was around sixty-five to the minute. It must be doing one hundred and thirty now, he felt.
“People will be asking me did I get the numbers,” Alfie said.
In a daze, Jimeen stared straight ahead.
“Are you all right there, Jimeen?” Alfie asked
“Yeah… just thinkin’…”
“Oh aye. But sure things might sort themselves out yet.”
“I’m going to give up spending money on this bloody Lotto,” Denny said, crunching his worthless ticket.
Control yourself, Jimeen’s inner voice said. He looked at himself in the mirror facing him from behind the bar. Everything seemed normal all right, but it would never be normal again. He found it hard to control the tremor in his hands. He gripped the pint glass tight.
“I’ll have you in a game of darts,” Roy said to Denny. “For five euro.”
“You’re on. Make it ten, okay?”
“Right, come on. The best of three.”
Jerry opened out the Evening Herald and started to read.
Jimeen vaguely heard Roy repeat to Denny, “Schmichel stopped the ball with his hands. That was a good one, wasn’t it?” He laughed again at his own joke.
Jerry leant over and whispered to Jimeen, “Don’t mind that feckin’ Roy—he’s only a bollox.”
Jimeen nodded his head.
Roy started to sing as he lined up the darts:
Previously that would have provoked a reaction, but not this time. Jimeen was finding the euphoria overpowering.
Back at Kirwan’s farm the problem with the rotovator had been solved. Harry had taken his wife out as planned. Samson had volunteered to work late into the night seeing how the forecast was so bad for the following evening.
“Good. Thanks, Samson,” Harry had said, “we’ll get a good bit done tomorrow then, before the rain.”
Dickie’s mobile phone had rung and he had moved to one-side and held a short, muffled conversation. Samson put the cap back on the tank of the tractor, after filling up with diesel.
“You go on ahead of me with the car then,” he said to Dickie.
“Be Christ I won’t.”
“What?”
“That was the bird ringing—she’s stuck for a lift in town. There was some kind of mix-up.”
“What am I going to do so?” Samson asked.
“Put a red rag on the outside.”
“What good would a red rag be in the dark?”
“Ah, there’ll be no-one on that road. Flash your lights if you see Jimeen coming. I’m off, good-luck.”
Samson pondered the situation for a minute. Then he moved the powerful machinery out on to the road, the rotovator overlapping the tractor by a few feet.
At that moment Jimeen, struggling hard to contain his emotions, got down off the barstool. He’d go home and think things over, try and get his head straight. He’d make a phone call, to be certain. It felt like it, but could he have peed some in his pants?
“Good-luck,” He mumbled to Jerry.
“Be seeing you,” Jerry said, without taking his eyes off the paper.
Alfie was busy stacking the shelves, and didn’t see him leave.
“So-long, Schmeichel,” Roy said. Jimeen ignored him.
He jumped in behind the wheel and revved up the engine as he had the habit of doing. As he drove away he shouted “Yipee!” and clenched his fist above his head. Thank You God, for having pity on me! Thank You. I must give a good sum to charity. No-one must know yet! Definitely no-one must know. My mother and father will be taken care of, and my sister Jane. Feck the rest of ’em. All they ever did was make fun of me. The adrenalin was pumping through him at the enormity of what he had won. I’m a millionaire. Me! A millionaire!
He rounded a bend and saw lights flashing in front him. Loose battery leads, he presumed. At the last second he spotted the rotovator. Slamming the brakes he yanked the steering to the left and scraped along the side of the fence—the car hopped a couple of times, almost turning over. His head hit the door. At least he’d made it—he had avoided the deadly machine. He got out, put his hand to his head, felt a bit unsteady on his feet. Samson had jumped down off the tractor.
“Oh Christ Jimeen, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Are you all right?
> “Are you trying to kill me, Samson? Jesus, bringing that out on the road, with no-one in front or behind.”
“I know. I’m sorry, I’m awful sorry. Are you all right though?”
“I don’t know what way I am. I could have been killed.”
“Did you hit your head?”
“Off the door. It’s okay, I’m okay.”
“Are you sure?” Samson said, studying Jimeen.
“I could be in bits. You could be ringing for an ambulance right now. You know that?”
“I know I could. What kind of idiot am I? Is the car badly damaged?” They both look at the large indent up the left-hand side. “The insurance will cover all that. I’ll admit full responsibility. Christ, Jimeen, you don’t know how sorry I am. I got some fright when I saw you coming.”
“Not half as big as the one I got when I spotted that.”
“You’re not hurt bad, anyhow. That’s all that matters. You did great driving, the way you squeezed through.” He noticed Jimeen feeling his head. “Maybe it would be safer to see a doctor?”
“Samson, I’m okay. I have to go now. I’m in an awful hurry.”
“No, hold on. Christ hold on. Are you all right to drive? The steering could be damaged.”
“I’ll tell you what way it is tomorrow.”
“Harry and myself will call up early. Will you be there?”
“Maybe.”
Samson is examining the car again. “You’ll need two new doors, and a new panel, I’d say. Jimeen, don’t worry about money now, or anything like that. Everything will be fixed as good as new. You’re probably like myself, and don’t have a bob to spare.”
“That’s right, not a fluke. Samson I’m in a mad hurry. Good-luck.”
Jimeen got back into the car and drove away. It was pulling a bit to one-side. His ankle was starting to feel sore. I must have caught it in the pedals. The thick idiot, out on the road with that machine. I could have been killed or badly injured. In a wheelchair, maybe, and the ticket in my pocket. Despite everything, Jimeen had good time for Samson. I’ll have to slow down in future. That was a warning. I don’t want anything to happen to me now—not with this. He pats his breast pocket. What could have happened though— a millionaire one minute and dead the next. Oh God, thank You a second time. A millionaire! I wonder was I the only winner? The aftershock of the accident started to recede. The euphoria, exhilaration and excitement returned. He again felt on top of the world. I’ll disguise myself when I go to Dublin to collect the money.
As Jimeen drove along his mind was cluttered with all kinds of thoughts about what he was going to do. And then he saw it, parked beside the house: the same car as before—Bud’s car. He pulled over, turned off the headlights. He’d give himself a minute to sort his wits. “Christ, what do they want this time? Something important or they wouldn’t be here. Something to do with the house, maybe. They’re up to no good, anyhow. He might be better off to turn round and keep going.”
Curiosity got the better of him—he’d go in. He felt his temper surfacing again, but knew on this occasion he’d have to control it. His inner voice said, You pulled it off in the pub, so play it cool, Jimeen, play it ice cool. After all, only for Bud you wouldn’t have changed the numbers. You’d have had four and won about forty euro. Good man, Bud, for your choice in women! He realized also that the affection he once had for Minnie had evaporated, was gone for ever. What did he care about Bud and Minnie now? He’d drive up, walk in and confront them. He’d confuse them by acting as if the whole situation was completely normal. He turned the lights back on, drove up and parked behind Bud’s car.
He opened the door, entered, and there they were: Minnie wearing that awful blue track-suit that Jimeen despised, with the perpetual fag dangling out of her gob It’s a wonder, he thought, she wasn’t wearing the filthy pyjamas she often wore, even when going to the shops. And Bud, standing back, wearing his dark glasses, with a baseball bat clutched in his hands in a threatening manner.
“Take it easy now, Jimeen,” Bud said. “Try something funny and I’ll use this. I mean it.”
“What do you two want? Make it quick, I’m in a hurry. You want the last of the furniture, is that it? The old table there?”
“I paid for nearly all that furniture when I was working,” Minnie informed him.
“You paid for half of it.”
Jimeen went across, rolled back the corner of the faded carpet, put his hand in and took out two hundred euro he had hidden there for the rainy day. “We had four numbers in the lotto draw.”
“I noticed that,” Minnie replied.”
“Here,” he said, “you might as well have half—for old time’s sake.” He flicked a twenty euro note across to her, which fell to the floor. “We used to share our good luck, Bud.”
Minnie bent down to pick up the money, saying, “What about my share of the house? Half of it is mine. That’s why we’re here.”
“That’s the law,” Bud reminded him.
“Not when she walks off with some bandy-legged tramp.”
“That’s where you’re mistaken, mate,” Bud contradicted him. Bud was actually afraid of Jimeen and held the baseball bat in a defensive mode.
“We’ll have to get a solicitor,” Minnie said.
“Oh do. Get your solicitor, by all means,” Jimeen replied. “Bud, are you enjoying watching my forty two inch television?” Jimeen asked with cynicism. “It’s almost the same as being there, isn’t it?”
“We know you like watching the racing and the football so we brought you one,” Minnie said.
“Oh did you now. That’s very kind of you. Is this it here?”
There was a cardboard box on the table. Jimeen opened it and took out a small, used, fourteen inch Grundy television. He lifted it over his head and sent it crashing into the fireplace. Glass and a multiple of other bits flew all over the floor. Bud gave a little jump backwards on his bow legs, holding the baseball bat like a Samurai sword.
Minnie got a shock. “What are you doing? Christ above!”
“There’s no need for that!” Bud said “Careful now,” he warned.
Jimeen smiled demurely, looked from one to the other. Minnie wondered did he miss her so much he was going queer in the head.
“I’m off now,” Jimeen said, still smiling.
“No, wait, we have a lot to discuss. No use putting things on the long finger,” Minnie pointed out.
“Can’t we talk about things in a civilized fashion. There was no need for that,” Bud said, pointing to the floor.
“No more talk,” Jimeen said, putting his finger to his lips. “We’re done talking. White man speak with forked tongue. I’m off then.”
“What are you rushing for? Where are you going?”
Jimeen pointed to the window. “Minnie, there’s a whole big wide world out there. That’s where I’m going.”
“When are we going to talk then?” Minnie asked again.
“That’s in the lap of the gods, I’d say.” He stood at the door and with a flourish of the hand said, “If you want to spend the night here, you’re welcome. Be my guests.” He departed.
Bud and Minnie looked at each other. “What do you make of that?” Minnie asked
“That man is nuts. He’s a blackguard too—look what he done with the telly. I told you you’d get no satisfaction from that lunatic.”
“He’d put your heart crossways. And the feckin’ money hid under the carpet.You’d never think of looking there, sure you wouldn’t?”
A car was heard to start up and drive away.
“There he’s off,” Minnie said bitterly.
“Good riddance,” Bud added. “I’d say he’ll do his best now to make things difficult for us.”
“Did you see the head on him—grinning from ear to ear. He’s off on a skite now, with that money from under the carpet. That and the miserable twenty he won on the lotto. Holy Jesus up in Heaven, you’d think he had won the whole feckin’ lot.”
Confrontation
Betty and Dave are enjoying a cup of coffee and cake at Julie’s, their favourite café, overlooking Wexford Harbour. Prints of sailing ships on the walls give the location an air of authenticity. Julie’s is renowned for its confectionery and the pleasant service provided. Two pretty, smiling girls are on hand as assistants to Julia, the proprietress. If business is slack, Julie likes nothing better than to sit down and have a chat with her customers. In this capacity, she is sitting at the table with Betty and Dave.
Julia comments that mid-week is always a bit on the quiet side.
“It wasn’t too quiet around lunchtime,” Betty remarks, “We passed along here and the place was packed.”
“Don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining. People like to chat, with a cup of tea or coffee.”
“It’s the quality on offer,” Betty smiles, flattering.
“The two girls there are great,” Julie confirms. “But I’ll tell you one thing, this recession is hitting the town hard. I went for a good long walk yesterday evening and I couldn’t believe it, girl, all the places that are closed down.”
“It’s a bloody disgrace,” Dave agrees.
“Old established places,” Julia continues, “that were there for generations, gone. I hate to see the old names disappearing—the traditional names. The town will never be the same again.”
“The heart and soul is being torn out of the small town centres by those big multinationals on the outskirts,” Dave declares.
“Oh I’d say you’re right,” Julie nods. “The sad fact is the small shops just can’t compete.”
“It’s the same everywhere,” Betty points out. “I could name several towns.”
“And to think a couple of years ago everywhere was booming,” Julie laments. “The Celtic Tiger built us all up to drop us back down with a bang.”
“You know who’s to blame for that?” Dave says.
“Sure the dogs in the street know who’s to blame,” Julie replies. “And they’ll get away with it—don’t they always?”
“If this was America they’d be arrested,” Betty emphasises.
“If this was China they’d probably be shot.” Dave adds.
“No rest for the wicked,” Julie says, rising, as four young girls enter. The four girls order coffee and pick out their confectionery of choice from behind the glass display cabinet. They then go and sit by a table near the window, talking in the animated, excited fashion, that young people are prone to do.
Tales of the Bright, the Dark & the Bizzare Page 12
