Bullfighting: Stories

by Roddy Doyle

  —These things are supposed to be rodent-proof, he says.

  —Tell that to the fuckin’ mouse, she says.

  And that was that, really. No real damage done. I got some poison, the blue stuff – I can’t remember its name – and I put it up in the attic. And I got a couple of new traps for in here. No problem, end of story. Then I found your man and we realised that it was a rat all the time and he’d had the run of the house for God knows how long.

  So. I suppose, on top of everything else, my tiredness, the rows with the eldest – I suppose I’m just getting old. The rat was the icing on the cake, so to speak. Not the first time I’ve seen a rat, of course. I see them all the time on the job, and when I was a kid we used to hunt them. But before, when I saw a rat, it was always doing the decent thing, running off in the opposite direction. This guy, though. Granted, he was dead. But how long had he been in the house? Mice stick to one little patch of the house, but not rats. They have the run of the place. He came into the kitchen here through a hole in the plaster, where it was drenched by the flooding and fell away from the wall. He died two feet from the hole. But what about before that? How did he get in before the plaster fell away? Down the stairs? It’s shattering, thinking about it.

  But.

  Here it is. Here’s why I’m here. I’m taking the house back. I’m repossessing it. I’m staying here like this until it becomes natural again. Until I’m actually reading, and not listening out for noise or remembering our dead pal on the floor every time I go over to the kettle.

  I’m not guarding the house. I don’t think that there are more rats inside. Or mice. And, to be honest with you, the mice are fuckin’ welcome. I’ll get in some extra cheese for them. No, I’m getting over that bit. That’s only a matter of time. The rat’s gone.

  But. In a way, I am guarding the house. Not against a rat or rats or anything else that shouldn’t be in the house. I’m guarding it against nature. The only reason life can go on in this house is because we managed to keep nature out. And it’s the same with every house. And nature isn’t lambs and bunnies and David Attenborough – that’s only a tiny part of it. It’s a lot rougher than that. Life is a fight between us – the humans, like – and nature. We’ve been winning but we haven’t won. And we never will. The rats, for instance. They’re under us. Three feet, about. A bit more, a bit less. They’re under there. Fine. But give them a chance and they’ll be back. They haven’t lost and they never will. We need the walls and the foundations to keep them out, to let them know – because they’re not thick – we’re brighter than them and we’re stronger than them. We have to mark off our space, the same as the other animals do.

  And it’s not just the animals. It’s ourselves. We used to be cannibals. It’s only natural, when you think about it. We’re only meat. What could be more natural, for fuck sake? We probably taste quite good as well, the fitter, younger ones. But we sorted out the cannibalism years ago. It’s not an issue any more, it’s not a choice. Take the house away, though, take the farms and the roads and all the organisation that goes into human life and it will be a question of choice again. If nature gets the upper hand again, we’ll soon be eating each other. Or, at the very least, we’ll be deciding whether or not to. And then there’s sex. We’re only a couple of generations away from the poor freaks in The Slave. Brothers with sisters, fathers with daughters. It goes on anyway, sometimes. We all know that. It’s disgusting, but we have to admit it. It’s nothing new. I’ve always known it. Only, I’ve never had to think about it. And that’s what the rat did when it decided to die on the floor over there.

  I recognise what’s going on in my head, what’s been going on for a while, actually, on and off. It’s middle age. I know that. It’s getting older, slower, tired, bored, useless. It’s death becoming something real. The old neighbours from my childhood dying. And even people my own age. Cancer, mostly.

  But you can still hang on. And I’d been doing alright. There’s little Chili. He’s been like a new battery. Just picking him up strips the years off me. I feel as young and as happy as I did when Sarah was born. And there’s Jackie. We get on great. We have sex, although it always seems to be on Fridays. Which I don’t like, that kind of routine. Because I’m a bastard for routines. The slightest excuse, everything becomes a routine, and I’ve always tried to fight it. But anyway. I love her. Yeah, I do.

  She makes me laugh. She knows I’m struggling, and she’s sympathetic. She gets a bit impatient with me, but who wouldn’t be.

  I’d been coping okay. Enjoying life. The world was a straightforward, decent place that could be simplified into a line of words running down a blackboard. My very educated mother just showed us nine planets.

  And so it is. Only, it has to be protected. If you find a rat in your kitchen the world stops being a straightforward, decent place for a while. You have to take it back. And that’s what I’m doing. Taking it back.

  And I’m getting there. I don’t know how long it’s going to take, and I don’t care. Fuck the rat. And fuck nature.

  It’s a matter of time.

  The Joke

  If he went now, he’d never come back. He’d go and she wouldn’t know, or care. He’d come back and the same thing; she wouldn’t care. So, what was the point? He wasn’t going anywhere.

  And that made it worse. And made him more annoyed. And angry. And stupid.

  This thing now. It was nothing. The thing itself.

  —No, no. He’ll come and collect you.

  That was it. Word for word. What had him half standing, still sitting, his fat arse hanging over the armchair.

  His arse wasn’t fat. But there was more of it than there used to be. Not that much more.

  Anyway.

  They were the words.

  —No, no. He’ll come and collect you.

  The words themselves were harmless. She hadn’t even been talking to him.

  But that, there, was the point. She hadn’t been talking to him. She’d been talking to someone else. She still was. On the phone. He didn’t know who. Her sister, her ma, his ma. They were the even-money bets. But it could have been anyone. Her friend, the adultery woman, was another prospect. She was a three-to-one bet.

  He wasn’t a betting man. Never had been.

  She was out in the kitchen; he didn’t know who she was talking to. But he did know that she’d just offered his services to whoever it was at the other end.

  —No, no. He’ll come and collect you.

  And that was the thing. And had been the thing for a long time. And he was sick of it.

  Sick of what, but?

  He wasn’t sure. The whole thing. Everything. He was just sick of it.

  The invisible fuckin’ man.

  —No, no. He’ll come and collect you.

  That was who he was. What he was. The invisible man. The taken-for-granted sap. As if he was just waiting there. With nothing better to do.

  Granted, he was doing nothing. But that wasn’t the point. No way was it. He’d been sitting there, doing nothing in particular – the telly was off. But it didn’t matter. If he’d been climbing Mount Everest or upstairs in the bed, it didn’t matter. It didn’t bloody matter what he was or wasn’t doing.

  It was the fact, the thing. He didn’t know how to—

  Just hearing it. He was sick of it. And he couldn’t say anything. Because it was so small. He could never explain it without being mean or selfish or other things that he really wasn’t.

  Her friend, for example. The adultery woman. They’d been friends for years. A good-looking woman. Didn’t nearly look her age. And the adultery thing wasn’t fair. He wasn’t judging. He didn’t; he never had.

  Anyway. He’d been there when she’d left her husband. He’d helped her load the car, his car, with her bags and her two kids and all of their stuff. While the husband was at work, or wherever – the pub; he didn’t know. And he was glad he’d done it. It had been the right thing to do. He’d never doubted it. Not once. Or
resented it, or anything. The husband was a bollix, an animal. She was well out of that situation. And he wouldn’t have cared if the husband had come after him. The woman’s jaw was strapped and broken, sitting beside him in the car. The kids in the back were pale. It had been a good deed, that one. He’d felt a bit heroic. The wife had hugged him, kissed him, thanked him again and again.

  That was the biggest example. The most dramatic.

  He wasn’t making his point. He was missing it.

  A better example. Her mother. Not such a bad oul’ one. Harmless really, once you knew her. Anyway, he’d gone out in the pissing rain to bring her home from her bingo. More than once, and no problem. He’d been happy to do it; he’d do it again. And her sister. He’d brought her twenty Silk Cut when she was stuck at home with her broken leg. And a choc-ice.

  Errands of mercy. He’d been doing them for years. And here – good – here was the point. Not once, not once – none of them had ever asked him.

  She was still on the phone.

  —Yeah, I know, yeah. God.

  Not once. Fair enough, they’d all said thanks.

  You’re great.

  You’re a star.

  I don’t know where I’d be without you.

  And that was fine. And appreciated. But none of them had ever phoned and asked to speak to him. Not once. Ever.

  And it wasn’t just that.

  It was—

  Fuckin’ everything. He was sick of it.

  But he sat down again. His arms were getting sore, holding himself over the seat. But that didn’t mean anything. He hadn’t changed his mind; he hadn’t made it up. He could get back up; he would. She was still on the phone. It wasn’t urgent, whatever it was. He had to clear his head. He had to be clear. He was going to say no when she came looking for him. He had to know why.

  It went back. Back, back, back. Ah, Jesus – years. His fault. He accepted that. Yeah. His own fault. So.

  But it wasn’t about the errands of mercy. She’d called them that. It wasn’t just them. He had to be clear.

  He’d liked it; he remembered. When she’d said that about errands of mercy. She was drying his hair with a towel. She sat on his lap. One leg each side of his legs, right up at him.

  He still had his hair. Most of it.

  Lap was a stupid word.

  He loved her. That was important.

  Back.

  Give and take. There’d once been that. Partnership. That was what he’d have called it, although he didn’t like that word either. Partnership. Give and take. He brought her ma home from bingo; she sat on his lap. But that wasn’t it; that just cheapened it. It wasn’t about the sex. But—

  That too. Yeah, definitely.

  How, but – ? How was he going to get his point across without making it look like it was all about sex when it wasn’t but, in a way, it was?

  He’d deal with it.

  Anyway.

  Partnership. It had all been part of it. The relationship – another fuckin’ word. They’d done things together. Even when they weren’t together. He’d do the driving or the shop, clean the windows, whatever. But they’d both be involved. They’d done them together. That was how it had felt. How it had been.

  Something had happened.

  Nothing had happened. It had just happened. The way things were now.

  She was still in there, on the phone. He could hear her agreeing and disagreeing, with whoever. Listening, nodding. Putting her hair behind her ear.

  He still loved her.

  And the partnership had stopped. Somewhere. He could never have pinned it down; he’d no idea. There’d been nothing said. Nothing done. As far as he knew. But, who knew?

  It was a mess. He was. A mess. His anger. Moods.

  He wanted to reach out. In the bed. And he couldn’t. It wasn’t there; he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t lift his hand and move it, a foot, a foot and a half – less. He couldn’t do it. What had happened? What had happened?

  He didn’t know. He honestly didn’t. He didn’t know.

  It was a good big telly, one of the widescreen ones. He’d thought they could watch it together. At least that. When he’d bought it.

  He was older. Fuck that, so was she. That wasn’t it. He didn’t think it was.

  They’d never spoken about it.

  What?

  He didn’t know. The change. The stop. He didn’t know. The partnership. Fuck it, the marriage. And it wasn’t true about the sex either, exactly. They still had it, did it. Now and again. The odd time. The hands would meet. The warmth.

  What was he going to say? When she came in?

  She was still in there, in the kitchen. Still chatting.

  He was right but. Essentially, he was right. It was gone. Something had gone wrong. Something small. Something that he hadn’t even noticed. It had changed. She couldn’t deny it.

  And would she? Deny it. He hadn’t a clue.

  He used to know. He used to guess right, more often than not. What she’d say. How she’d react. They’d smile at each other, because they both knew what they were up to. She’d slap his arse when he passed. He’d put his hand on her hair. Words hadn’t mattered; she’d known what he meant. I love you. I like you. I’m glad.

  I love you. I like you. I’m glad.

  That was it.

  He used to – he could tell when she was going to say something. Before she did. Something in the air, in the atmosphere. He didn’t have to be looking at her. He knew. And she did too. And he’d liked being read.

  He didn’t know when it had stopped. The reading. He didn’t know. Maybe they still could, read each other’s thoughts; they just didn’t. He didn’t know; he didn’t think so. He didn’t know her. He knew her, but he didn’t know her. It had been a slow thing. Very gradual. He hadn’t noticed.

  That wasn’t true. He had. He’d noticed.

  But he’d done nothing.

  What?

  Jesus, it was terrible. Stupid.

  He was angry. He was always angry.

  He was always angry.

  He lay awake, he woke early. It was always there. He didn’t know why. Nothing had happened. Nothing big. His fault. He should have known. It was there a long time, the difference. The silence. He’d known.

  They’d never had a row. That was true, more or less. There’d never been anything serious. Small stuff. Missing keys, her ma at Christmas. Nothing big. Fundamental. Neither of them had ever stormed out or packed a bag. They’d never shouted or broken anything. There’d been nothing like that. There’d been nothing.

  Maybe it was the kids.

  He was blaming the kids.

  He wasn’t. Just, maybe that was part of what had happened. They’d never had time; they’d been too busy. Always ferrying them around, football and dancing and Scouts and discos. Then ferrying her ma as well. And her sister, and his ma. And her friend. The one he’d driven away from her husband.

  He’d had a thing about her. He’d have admitted that. It had never come to anything. But he’d felt it. A woman who’d had sex with someone she wasn’t married to. He’d been excited. That was true. At the time. Even with her kids in the back of the car. Adultery. Another word that did nothing for him.

  The kids but. There was nothing in that theory. They’d been busy, run off their feet – mad stuff. But they’d had the kids in common. Even when they were upstairs, in the bed.

  Is that one of them waking?

  Don’t stop, don’t stop.

  Where’s his inhaler?

  Don’t stop!

  They’d liked it. They’d loved it. At the time. And it had been a long time. Twenty-six years. What had happened?

  He didn’t fuckin’ know.

  Did she?

  He didn’t know.

  Probably.

  He didn’t know.

  He didn’t know anything.

  The telly hadn’t worked. Not really. Stupid, again. The idea that a television could bring them together. Even a good one. The
y didn’t even watch telly much. They never had. He liked the football, now and again; he wasn’t that fussed. She liked the politics. Questions and Answers. Prime Time. There was another telly, upstairs in the bedroom. You didn’t need a big screen to watch politicians. The whole idea had been stupid.

  The football was better on the big screen but.

  He felt himself smiling. Like a fight against his face. He let it through. He smiled.

  She was still on the phone. She laughed.

  Like the old times. He’d smiled; she’d laughed. The way they used to know each other.

  Stupid.

  He was being stupid. It wasn’t like the old times, nothing like the old times – whatever they were. He was by himself. She was somewhere else. There was no togetherness in it. None.

  It was nice but. Her laugh. He’d always liked it.

  He used to make her laugh.

  God.

  Could he still? Make her laugh. He doubted it. Would she want him to? He didn’t know.

  But he’d done it before. He’d tickled her, now and again. He couldn’t do that now. Creep up behind her in the bathroom. They were never in the bathroom together. He smiled again. The thought. Creeping up behind her. She’d have fuckin’ freaked. And it wasn’t the only way he’d made her laugh. Words used to do it. Jokes. Playacting, acting the eejit. She’d liked it. She’d loved it. She’d moved closer to him when she was laughing.

  He could give it a try. Now. A joke. Paddy the Englishman and Paddy the Irishman were—. No; it was stupid. There was the one about the guy with no back passage. No. The one about the Irishman at the Tina Turner concert. He smiled. Too long, and she hadn’t liked it the first time. He remembered.

  What was he doing?

  He wasn’t sure.

  What’s the difference between a good ride and a good shite? That was a good one. Short and good. But it was so long since he’d told her a joke. He was just being thick.

  They hadn’t spoken since this morning.