Donna and Bobby Doyle spent five minutes together in close colloquy, Donna with her BlackBerry, looking like she was taking instruction. While this was going on, Dee Dee Doyle passed me a business card. It had her mobile and private home numbers, her name and the single word Events printed on it. On the reverse, there was a message written in eyebrow pencil: Call me. I get so lonely. I turned to her immediately, reflexively, taken aback by the boldness of this; she seemed fixed on something Rory was telling her about beachfront real estate in Maine, and wouldn’t catch my eye.
When Bobby Doyle and Rory McBride started gently lilting “Raglan Road,” Donna Nugent stood bolt upright as if by prearranged signal, nodded at me and bade everyone the extravagant farewells she ritually bestowed on old friends and new conquests alike. We were on the street in seconds, and in the Shelbourne in minutes. We didn’t speak as we walked. I didn’t notice any unmarked blue saloon cars following me, or cops in pairs looking on, but that didn’t mean they weren’t there.
I checked my messages on the way: the Delaney brothers would get in late on Good Friday night, with Paul’s removal to take place on Holy Saturday. Lamp Comerford wanted me to know Ray Moran would be working in his office on Pembroke Road all through Saturday. And Anne Fogarty hoped I was all right, and said she hadn’t been entirely straight with me, and wanted to meet me on Saturday so she could explain. Her voice pricked my conscience, as if we had already started something and I was just about to betray it. Before I could get any further with that train of thought, halted at the Dawson Street crossing, Donna Nugent pulled me hard against her and pushed her tongue into my mouth and bit hard on my lower lip until I could taste blood and ground herself against my cock until I felt the aching weight of it and I couldn’t think of anything else except the salt and musk glow of her, and nothing would do me until I had her.
The lights changed, and she pulled back her head and saw the haze of lust in my eyes and laughed, baring her teeth, and ran across the road, her heels clattering on the wet stones, and I ran after her, blind to everything but our destination, lost in the delirium of our heated blood.
PART III
GOOD FRIDAY
The Shelbourne Hotel.
We stayed a second night.
I don’t want to talk about it.
Dublin—M1 to Belfast, November 9, 1980
THE COYLE FAMILY
Gerry Coyle
Jesus, the roads here are the pits, I’d forgotten. Potholes and cracks and big wedges of asphalt where they laid cable or a water pipe and haven’t even bothered rolling it flat. No wonder Unionists think the south is a shambles. Cheek of us, we’ve a country where it takes a year to get a fucking telephone installed but we think they should see sense at last and decide their future’s safe with us. And if mass unemployment, no infrastructure, all-round incompetence, and politics in thrall to the Catholic Church doesn’t tempt you, surely the IRA blowing seven shades of shite out of you will turn the balance. We’re some fucking clowns. Now. That’s the kind of rant better in than out, at least where Claire is concerned. Keep it for the pub, love, she’d say. And mind which pub it is.
Excellent weekend, all things considered. All right, the match was a bit flat, nil-all to Nott’s Forest, but what could you expect after midweek, four-nil, Aberdeen totally outclassed, battle of Britain my hole! The boys looked tired but happy, always good to see them in the flesh, Phil Neal and King Kenny, even Hansen got a goal on Wednesday. Don’t know what Paisley says to them, but it’s working. Third European Cup in May, just have a feeling. You say that every season, Claire’d say. And then sooner or later I’ll be right.
Fair enough, Luke was a bit disappointed, long way to come and his first live match and then no goals. But he’s just got to get used to suffering like the rest of us. What does he think football is, entertainment? He could have it a lot worse, he could have inherited Chelsea, or Man United. But we mustn’t mock the afflicted.
Claire didn’t mind the weekend, I think. She knew it was important for Paul, after Nicky’s funeral and everything. Poor little guy, Luke and him were like that. And I think Claire got on with…Robbie’s wife, shit, why can’t I remember the names of my friends’ wives, it’s not as if they’re always trading them in. Alison, Claire got on with Alison. Touch and go there I reckoned on Friday night, Alison’s…got a mouth on her sure enough. But they seemed to hit it off. Opposites attract. There’s enough shopping in the boot anyway, if that’s anything to judge. Wouldn’t have thought the prices are any different to Belfast. No, they said, with one voice, that gleeful way women have when they know you’re wrong and they’re right, but the shops are! Jigsaw, was that one of them? Don’t remember. Anyway, they were probably in better spirits after the match than we were.
Yeah, Claire had an all-right time. Just, I don’t understand why we can’t stop off in Dublin for an hour or two, catch up with the old crowd. Well, I do understand, I just don’t think it’s fair, and I’m just working very hard not to bring it up again. Because I’ll have three pints instead of the two I’ve promised because Barney or Darragh or Niall will have a third on the table before the second is half done and everyone’s having such great crack and I’ll be into the third one before I’ve noticed or because I’ve no self-control and it’s not fair to expect her to keep an eye on me like she’s my mammy and then she’ll have to drive and she doesn’t like driving this car. A 1967 Jaguar Mark 2 3.8 liter, and she doesn’t like driving it. Still. Maybe she’s right. Home earlier. Nip out for a quick jar with the papers. Get back, she’ll be rested up, round the weekend off with a ride if we’re lucky. Too pissed for anything last night, and well grumpy about it she was, so fingers crossed she’ll have held that thought. Something to look forward to. Things could be worse.
Claire Coyle
There he is, sulking, I don’t even have to open my eyes, I can hear the ostentatiously heavy breathing that denotes heroic self-restraint on his part. He should know rightly why we’re not stopping. There we’d be, having sat through an hour of stories about who has the worse hangover and whose party didn’t end until three the following afternoon and who got stranded naked on a bog road after a Rory Gallagher gig and what gas crack it all was and then he’d look over at me with his eyes all droopy, the way he does when he wants something, like a kid, and I’d see another pint in front of him, one of his hilarious mates has slipped it to him, don’t tell the little woman, as if driving your family home a hundred miles drunk out of your mind is just another gas story to tell in the pub, he knows this car handles too heavy for me, or at least, does over that distance, I warned him, and he’s looking at me like I’m his mammy, please, can I? God, the sex just drops off him when he does that. Wee bit of self-control, wee bit of no, I’ll have a rock shandy, I’ve responsibilities here and I’d sit for as long as it took, through one interminable drinking story after another, and be ready to hop on him afterward first chance I got, still fancy the arse off him so I do, even if it’s better to keep him guessing on that score. Keep them guessing, girls, keep them guessing. But when he gives me that look—will you drive us home? Will you take charge? Will you look after me? Before the kids came, sometimes I thought it was cute, a bit of a turn-on, him giving me the big soft eyes, like he needed looking after, like a wee boy. But I have a wee boy, I don’t want my man carrying on like that. Not anymore. It’s anything but a turn-on is what it is. Still. Was looking forward to it last night. Strange bed, few drinks, got a nice flimsy little thing or two in Next to surprise him, Alison’s idea that was. Come in from the bathroom with them on to be greeted with snores. Gerry the whale. Maybe if we’re not too wrecked by the time we get home. Of course, knowing him, he’ll think he deserves a few pints for all his arduous driving, and he’ll stay out too long and I’ll be asleep when he gets home and no one will be satisfied. God, would you listen? Pity about us.
Poor Luke. No, not “poor Luke,” God, I have to break that habit, we’re all tiptoeing around him as if he’s an unexploded
bomb, oh God forgive me did I just say that? I can’t believe I even thought it, an unexploded bomb, Jesus. Have to breeze along as if everything’s normal, that’s what the psychologist says, be there for him if he wants to talk, or equally if he doesn’t. Don’t try and push him into it, or keep asking him if he’s all right in a tone of voice that sounds as if you think he isn’t, and you’re just waiting for him to burst into tears. He’s an eight-year-old boy, and he’s a wee man, and his best friend since high babies was blown to bits, and there’s no right or wrong way for him to feel or to show or not show what he feels. The wee soul.
Thank God Yvonne is so strong. Never a peep out of her when Luke was getting all the attention. I think she enjoyed the weekend though, enjoyed Alison’s wee one, Lynsey. Lively young one. Maybe on the fast side. Makeup at twelve. Up to Alison. Mind you, Alison’s on the fast side also, that story she told about Robbie’s friend at the Christmas party…it was a good laugh, but still…God, sometimes I feel like such a prude, maybe I am a prude…anyway, no harm done, sure Yvonne’s a bit overprotected as it is, she saw a bit of life I suppose. If she had that on her doorstep every day, it might be another matter. But Belfast’s not exactly overflowing with life these days, is it?
Yvonne Coyle
SO amazing. I mean, so amAZING! Like Don’t Stand So Close To Me. Except for real. I suppose Lynsey might have been spoofing, but I don’t think so. I mean, Lynsey’s gorgeous, and she looks at least fourteen, and Belinda Forbes said Emily Parker did it when she was fourteen with a student she met at a Queens’ student-union disco. Students! God! I don’t know that Mum took to Lynsey, I could see her eyeing her, that way she has where she’s smiling but it looks like she’s bitten her tongue. And she was wearing makeup and her hair was dyed blond. I know what Mum would say if we saw a girl who looked like that in Belfast. A bit common, that’s what she’d say. A bit v-u-l-g-a-r. Mind you, Lynsey’s mum. I mean. Not just the makeup, but the hair, the size of the hair. And that laugh. Not really like any of Mum’s friends. But then, by the Saturday, Mum was laughing the same way. As if…well, as if they were making jokes about You Know What. S—E—X. God! And then in Next, Mum and Lynsey’s mum in the underwear department, laughing away—more of a cackle, really. SO embarrassing. Making a show of themselves, so they were, but the assistants seemed to think it was great crack altogether. I couldn’t look! Lynsey just rolled her eyes, like it was too boring. Got to let your hair down every now and then, Mum said to me. I think she was a bit embarrassed. She looked all shiny, the way she does when Dad gets her to have a second glass of wine.
Imagine doing it with a teacher! Not that I want to. So disgusting! Not that I don’t want to at all, I just…Mum says I’m too young to think about boys. But I do think about them. Not old men though, not teachers. Students! God, students, that’s different. Some of the boys Daddy teaches are dreamy. And if he had a motorbike. A trials bike, that’s what Belinda Forbes said, but I don’t know what that is. That’s ’cause your dad’s from Dublin, Belinda Forbes said, you don’t understand our unique motorcycling culture in the province here. Maybe I don’t. But I could learn. I don’t think motorbikes are common. And even if they are, who’s to judge? Not so sure Mum is anymore, if she’s going to be Lynsey’s mum’s best friend and laugh like that…
“Please don’t stand so close to me…”
Luke Coyle
Match was really boring. Crowd was good but. “You’ll Never Walk Alone,” just like on TV. Swore a lot so they did, really bad swears, every second word was cunt or fuck or arsehole. Dad just grinned, like I was used to it. How would he know? I am used to it. But he doesn’t know that.
After the match was good though, McDonald’s, I had two Big Macs! Wonder how they make that sauce. Deadly so it is. Even if you knew, you probably couldn’t make it at home, like chipper chips. Then in the pub with Dad and his friend. Call me Robbie, roight? Bought me Shoot and Goal and 2000 AD and three Cokes. Because the match was so boring, or because of Nicky. I heard Dad telling him about Nicky in that voice he uses, very sad but kind of important, as if this is not something that’s happened to everyone. Then they were talking on about university stuff. Call Me Robbie teaches the same as Dad except in Liverpool, electrical engineering. Or electronic. Dad explained the difference, but I can’t remember it. Call Me Robbie’s from Dublin too, sounds the same as Dad. Roight. Take it easy. Excellent. Sound like they’re half asleep. Call Me Robbie’s wife isn’t like Mum though.
Big tits. Huge tits.
I saw her bra. You couldn’t not, it was black under her white blouse, and over it too, at the buttons. You couldn’t not see it.
Dad saw me looking, winked at me.
What’s that supposed to mean?
Went out for food before we started back. Brunch, that’s what Call Me Robbie said it was. Four sausages two fried eggs chips bacon black-and-white pudding no fried bread or soda farls ketchup liver if you wanted it but I didn’t and two sausages Yvonne didn’t want because she’s on a diet since when I think that was because of Lynsey you could nearly see up Lynsey’s skirt it was that short and beans and mushrooms. Not as good as an Ulster Fry, but it wasn’t bad.
Heard Mum talking to Lynsey’s mum about Nicky then.
I wish they’d give it up.
I wish I could tell them.
Only thing I’m sad about, he didn’t have Adam and Stuart with him, the three of them’d be gone and good riddance.
How did you feel?
Relief. That’s what I’m not allowed say.
Wasn’t my fault.
Nicky passing notes to me every day in school after I sat with Craig this term. You’re DEAD after school.
Tried to shrug it off, but he kept on about it.
So we had a fight, and I floored him.
Then walking home, Adam and Stuart got me by the railway lane, kicked me in the balls and rubbed dog shit in my face and hair. Washed it off without Mum knowing. The smell stayed for ages.
Then I was too scared to do anything, because I knew Nicky’s brothers would get me.
Every day, the notes. You’re dead after. Signed Killer.
I’d pretend I was sick in my stomach.
I used to get sent home because the pains in my stomach were making me cry.
Everyone knew.
No one did anything. They were all scared of Adam and Stuart. Once they made someone who tried to fight back eat his own shite. That story’s true. Everyone knew it.
Everyone knew all of it. Except Mum and Dad.
Dad didn’t have a clue. Neither did Mum. Worse. She was great friends with Nicky’s mum. Always asking me, why don’t we get Nicky over at the weekend. Why don’t we bring Nicky to the zoo.
Don’t want to. Don’t know. Just don’t.
Every night I prayed: please make it stop.
And then Nicky went up the shops at big break, against the rules, and he got caught in a car-bomb blast.
All the school turned out for the funeral. The wee white coffin. And I was up there with my mum near the family, because our mums were such great friends. Because we were such great friends.
No one at school let on. Even Adam and Stuart, they just went along with it. They’re not after me anymore. I was Nicky’s best friend since forever. How must I be feeling about the little guy?
I’m supposed to feel sad. But I don’t. He made my life a misery. And now it isn’t anymore. Now he’s not here.
It’s not my fault.
I felt relieved.
Almost happy.
Don’t be afraid of the dark…
Hungry now.
I wonder if we’ll stop off for a bite along the way.
Sausages and egg and chips…
PART IV
HOLY SATURDAY
CHAPTER 12
Dessie Delaney shifted in his seat, but there was only so much shifting you could do when you were sat alongside a fat fuck like his brother. The waves of heat coming off him now, beer sweat and sunburn and w
orse. Unbelievable Liam ever got laid at all, let alone as often as he did. ’Course, it helps if you don’t give a shite what you’re sticking it into. Six-hour delay in Athens airport they had, so of course Liam is lorrying back the pints big-time, crying, actually crying, me little brother Paul, someone’s going to pay, all this, desperate maudlin Paddy Irishman shite, Dessie can’t listen to another word of it, and suddenly there’s this enormous orange one in purple Lycra and black leggings and dyed black hair in a top knot with pigtails who was on the island, a regular in the bar, Liam was doing her whenever her husband’s back was turned, that is, whenever he was moldy with the gargle, which was pretty much all the time, he was a Stella-after-breakfast merchant, Sharon.
Dessie turns away to let them say whatever the fuck it is they have to say to each other, the mind boggles, and when he turns back haven’t the pair of them vanished, into a disabled toilet Liam tells Dessie later, plenty of room in there, you’d fucking need it the pair of you, Dessie doesn’t say, Jasus. Across the gantry in the mirror behind the optics, Dessie could see the purple one’s husband, all red-faced and beery, adrift among his bickering children, four or five of them clamoring for his attention, or one another’s, or somebody’s.
Time was, Dessie would have got upset. He didn’t know Liam was such a shagger when he went out first—hadn’t seen him for years, had only been a kid when he’d left. And Liam had done him a favor letting him into the business in the first place, Dessie was just out of rehab, true, but he’d been in lousy shape, if it hadn’t been for Sharon, she just pitched straight in, cooking, cleaning, serving behind the bar, no one like Sharon for work.
Dessie’d been worried Sharon would take against Liam when she saw what he was like—he’d been worried he’d take against him himself. She had told Dessie once if he ever stepped out of line she’d cut it off and film him bleeding to death so she could watch it every Christmas as an after-dinner treat. But Sharon said Liam was different. For a start, Liam had no kids, and then there was the fact that Rita, his wife, was a lazy-arsed wagon who spent all her time flying back to Ireland to take care of her hypochondriac mother who was always on the point of dying but never fucking did, and all her time in bed when she was here, because she “suffered from her nerves,” which Sharon said was an old-style medically approved way of being a lazy-arsed wagon. Anyhow, in some way Dessie couldn’t quite figure but wasn’t allowed to resent, Sharon viewed Liam’s extracurriculars with indulgence, amusement even, and would cover for him whenever he’d ducked into the storeroom with another happily married housewife.
All the Dead Voices Page 11
