The Snapper

by Roddy Doyle

  —Shirkin’? said Bertie.

  —Fuck off.

  —He’s not tha’ bad, said Bimbo.

  —Yeh fancy him yourself, do yeh?

  —No!

  Bertie and Paddy laughed.

  —Bimbo goes for the younger lads, Jimmy Sr told them. —Isn’t tha’ righ’?

  —Ah lay off, will yeh.—I can’t understand it. Yeh know, the way queers—like each other.

  —D’yeh think about it much? Paddy asked him.

  —No!—Nearly never. Lay off.

  Bertie put his pint down.

  —So the Signor Burgess has vamoosed, he said.

  —An’ shirked his responsibilities, said Paddy.

  —Fuck off, you, said Jimmy Sr.

  —Poor Doris an’ the kids, said Bimbo.

  —Why don’t you adopt them? said Paddy.

  —Would you ever leave me alone, said Bimbo.

  —Tell him to fuck off, said Jimmy Sr.

  —I will, said Bimbo.—Fuck off.

  —Make me.

  What WAS he up to anyway?

  Sharon pulled on her other boot. She sat up slowly. God Jesus, her back really hurt her when she did that, after being bent down. She put her hands on her belly. She could feel it shifting.

  What was he fuckin’ up to?

  The baby butted her.

  —Take it easy, will yeh, said Sharon.

  She got her money off the bed and put it in her bag. She hoped to God Yvonne wouldn’t be there tonight. Maybe she’d be better off staying at home

  —Ah fuck this, she said.

  And she got up and went out.

  —Jesus; poor Yvonne though, said Jackie.

  —Yeah, said Mary and Sharon.

  —Maybe we should go round to her, said Jackie.

  —Ah no, said Sharon.

  —Yeah, said Mary.—I’d be too embarrassed.

  —Mm, said Jackie.—Can yeh imagine it? Jesus!

  —Jesus, yeah.

  She waited. She knew she’d have to get up and go to the toilet at least once more.

  He was going to do something really stupid, she was certain of that.

  She sat up. She’d go to the toilet now.

  Something really, really stupid.

  She’d just have to wait and see, that was all.—People were going to find out—her mammy and daddy—! Oh God, if that—!

  She’d just have to wait and see.

  She got back into bed.

  Sharon wasn’t long waiting and seeing. Linda woke her up. This was the night after Darren had broken the big news.

  —Sharon, said Linda.

  She was scared.

  —There’s someone throwin’ things at the window.

  —Yeah, said Tracy.

  She wouldn’t get out of the bed.

  —Who’s throwin’ things? said Sharon.

  —Don’t know.

  —Yeah.

  —Let’s see, said Sharon.

  —I’m not lookin’, said Linda.

  Sharon went over to the window. Just before she reached it there was a neat little bang.

  —Oh janey! said one of the twins.

  Someone had flung something at it. That frightened Sharon. She parted the curtain a little bit. The bedroom light was out but she could see nothing in the garden.

  But then she saw someone, behind the hedge at the back, in the field. He—it looked like a man—was bent down. Then he stood up and came through the gap in the hedge, over the wire, and it was Mister Burgess.

  Sharon nearly died.

  He stood there in the middle of the garden at the place where Les was supposed to do the digging. He was looking up at her window.—How did he know?—Then she saw his hand move up from his side, the palm towards her. Then there was another bang.

  She jumped. He’d just lobbed a little stone at the window. She let go of the curtain.

  —Who is it, Sharon?

  —Just young fellas, said Sharon.—Messin’.

  —Messin‘! said Tracy.—At this hour o’ night.

  —I’ll get them tomorrow, said Sharon.

  —Wha’ young fellas? said Linda.

  Sharon parted the curtain again. Mister Burgess wasn’t there. She didn’t think he was behind the hedge or the trees in the field either.

  —They’re gone now, she said.

  —Let’s see, said Linda.

  She looked.

  —They’re gone, Tracy, she said.

  —Night nigh’, said Sharon.

  She was back in bed.

  —Nigh’ nigh’, said Linda.

  Tracy was sleeping.

  Was Mister Burgess getting all romantic on her? Sharon wondered. Jesus, that was disgusting. Maybe he’d gone weird, like one of those men on the News—

  She’d have to wait and see a bit more.

  She lay there, wide awake.

  Jimmy Sr turned the sound down a bit.

  —I’ll never lay a hand on the twins again, he told Sharon.

  —Wha’?

  —The twins, said Jimmy Sr.—I’ll never touch them again.

  —Did you hit them?

  —No!—No; it’s all tha’ child abuse stuff goin’ on over in England. Were yeh not watchin’ it?

  -No. I was miles away.

  —On the News there, Jimmy Sr explained.—It looks like yeh can’t look at your own kids over there. They’ll take them away from yeh. An’ inspect their arses—

  —Daddy!

  —It’s true, Jimmy Sr insisted.

  They were by themselves in the front room.

  —Half the fuckin’ doctors in England are spendin’ their time lookin’ up children’s holes.

  —You’re disgustin’.

  —It’s not me, Sharon, said Jimmy Sr.—Yeh can’t turn on the fuckin’ telly or open a paper or—there’s somethin’ abou’ child abuse. The kids must be scared stiff.

  —But it happens, said Sharon.

  —Maybe it does, I don’t know. I suppose it does. —I’d kill annyone tha’ did somethin’ like tha’ to a child. A little kid. They do it to snappers even. I’d chop his bollix —excuse me, Sharon -off. I would. Then hang him. Or shoot him.—At least it’s not goin’ on over here.

  —You’d never know, said Sharon.

  —Would yeh say so? said Jimmy Sr.—Maybe you’re righ’. Jaysis.—It’s shockin’. How could annyone—

  Darren came in.

  —Good man, Darren, said Jimmy Sr.—Have yeh come in for your cyclin’?

  —Yeah, said Darren.

  He sat down on the floor.

  —Channel 4, said Jimmy Sr.—Let’s see now.

  He studied the remote control.

  —Number one.

  He pressed it.

  —Ads, he said.—That’s it. How’s Kelly doin’, Darren?

  -Alrigh’.

  —He’s gettin’ old, said Jimmy Sr.—The oul’ legs. Wha’ abou’ Roche?

  —Fourth.

  —He hasn’t a hope, said Jimmy Sr.

  —He has so.

  —Not at all, said Jimmy Sr.—He’s too nice, that’s his problem. He doesn’t have the killer instinct.

  —He won the Giro, Darren reminded him.

  —Fluke, said Jimmy Sr.—Hang on, here it is.

  He turned up the sound.

  —The music’s great, isn’t it?

  —Yeah, said Darren and Sharon.

  —Good Jaysis, said Jimmy Sr.—Look at those mountains. Roche is fucked. There’s no mountains like tha’ in Ireland.

  —Ah shut up, Da, will yeh.

  —I’m only expressin’ me opinion.

  —Yeh haven’t a clue.

  Jimmy Sr nudged Sharon. Then he switched channels.

  —Aaah!

  -Sorry. Sorry, Darren. Me finger slipped, sorry —There; that’s it back. There’s Roche now. He’s strugglin‘, look it. I told yeh. He’s not smilin’ now, wha’.

  —Da!

  Jimmy Sr grinned and nudged Sharon again.

  Sharon g
ot home from work a bit early on Monday, five days after she’d seen Mister Burgess throwing stones at the window. She hadn’t been feeling well, like as if she’d eaten too much chocolate, and the bottom of her back was killing her.

  She took a box of cod steaks from her bag.

  —I got these out o’ work, she told her mother.

  —You’ll get caught, said Veronica.

  —No, I won’t, said Sharon.

  —It’s not right. There’s a letter over there for you.

  —For me?

  The envelope was white and the address was in ordinary writing. Sharon had never got a real letter before.

  —That’s a man’s writing, said Veronica.

  Sharon looked at her.

  —I didn’t open it.

  —I never thought yeh did, Mammy, said Sharon.

  But she went upstairs to read it. Linda and Tracy were down watching the telly or practising their dancing. Something had been written on the back of the envelope but it had been rubbed over with the same pen. She couldn’t make it out. She opened the envelope carefully, afraid she’d rip what was inside. She gasped, then groaned,—Oh my God, and sat down on her bed when she saw what the letter was about. She should have guessed it, but she hadn’t; not really.

  There was no address or date.

  Dear Sharon,

  I hope you are well. Please meet me in the Abbey Mooney in town at 8 o’clock on Tuesday night. I want to talk to you about something very important. I am looking forward to seeing you.

  Yours sincerely

  George Burgess.

  There was a P.S.

  The paper is my sisters.

  The writing paper was pink. There was a bunny rabbit in the top left corner, sitting in some light blue and yellow flowers.

  Sharon sat there. She just sat there.

  Then she sort of shook herself, and realized that she was angry.

  The fucker.

  There was no way she was going to meet him, no fuckin’ way. She lifted the flap of the envelope up to the light coming through the window. She could make out the shapes of the rubbed-out writing on the flap now. They were capital letters.

  S.W.A.L.K.

  —Oh, the fuckin’ eejit! said Sharon.

  Bertie came in.

  —There y’are, Bertie, said Bimbo.

  —Howyeh, Bertie.

  —Buenas noches, compadres, said Bertie.

  —It’s your round, Paddy told him.

  —Give us a chance, for the sake of fuck.

  As Bertie said this he sat down and lifted his hand, showing four fingers to Leo the barman.

  —How’s the Jobsearch goin’, Bertie? Jimmy Sr asked him.

  —Don’t talk to me abou’ Jobsearch.

  He pretended to spit on the ground.

  —I speet on Jobsearch.

  Bimbo and Jimmy Sr laughed and Paddy grinned.

  —D‘yis know wha’ they had me doin’ today, do yis? Yis won’t believe this.

  —Wha’? said Bimbo.

  - They were teachin’ us how to use the phone.

  —Wha’!?

  —I swear to God. The fuckin’ phone.

  —You’re not serious.

  —I am, yeh know. I fuckin’ am. The gringo in charge handed ou’ photocopies of a diagram of a phone. I think I have it—No, I left it back at the Ponderosa. I’ll show it to yis tomorrow.—A fuckin’ phone.

  —Don’t listen to him.

  —It’s true, I’m tellin’ yeh. I was embarrassed for him, the poor cunt. He knew it was fuckin’ stupid himself. You, could tell; the poor fucker tellin’ us where to put the tenpences. One chap told him where he could stick the tenpences an’ then he walked ou’.

  They laughed.

  —Then he was tellin’ us, Bertie continued,—wha’ we should an’ shouldn’t say when we’re lookin’ for work.

  —Wha’ should yeh not say? Bimbo asked.

  —Anny chance of a fuckin’ job there, pal. They laughed.

  —It was the greatest waste o’ fuckin’ time, said Bertie. —You should always tell the name o’ the paper yeh saw the ad in. There now. An’ there’s no job ads in the Mirror. Unless it’s the manager o’ Spurs or Man United or somethin’. —I wouldn’t mind, compadres, but I’ve abou’ thirty fuckin’ phones in cold storage. Mickey Mouse an’ Snoopy ones.

  —Jessica’d like a Snoopy one, said Bimbo.—For her birth’y.

  —You don’t have a phone, said Paddy.

  —So?

  —So a Snoopy one won’t be much use to Jessica, will it?

  —For an ornament, I meant. For her bedside locker.

  —Her wha’?

  —Her bedside locker.

  —I bet yeh you made it yourself.

  —No!—I bought it an’ put it together.

  Paddy raised his eyes to heaven.

  —Do anny of yis ever hit your kids? Jimmy Sr asked them all.

  He lowered a third of his latest pint while they looked at him.

  —Never, said Bimbo.

  —Now an’ again, said Paddy.

  —Well, yeah, said Bimbo.—Now an’ again, alrigh’. When they’re lookin’ for it. Specially Wayne.

  —It’s the only exercise I get, Bertie told them.—I wait till they’re old enough to run but. To give them a fair chance, yeh know.

  Bimbo knew he was joking, so he laughed.

  —I’m dyin’ to give Gillian a good hidin’, said Bertie. —But she never does annythin’ bold. She’d give yeh the sick. Trevor’s great though. Trevor’s a desperado.

  Jimmy Sr took control of the conversation again.

  —Yis’d want to be careful, he told them.

  —Why’s tha’, compadre?

  —Cos if you’re caught you’re fucked.

  —What’re yeh on abou’? said Paddy.

  —Child abuse, said Jimmy Sr.

  —Would yeh ever fuck off, said Paddy.—Givin’ your kids a smack for bein’ bold isn’t child abuse.

  —No way.

  —I don’t know, said Jimmy Sr.—It looks to me like yeh can’t look crooked at your kids now—

  —Don’t be thick, said Paddy.—You’re exaggeratin’. Yeh have to burn them with cigarette butts or—

  —I’m not listenin’ to this, said Bimbo.

  —Don’t then, said Paddy.—Or mess around with their—

  —SHUT UP.

  It was Bimbo. Paddy stopped.

  —You’re makin’ a joke of it, said Bimbo.

  —I’m not.

  —Yeh are.

  —Whose twist is it? said Bertie.—Someone’s shy.

  —Four pints, Leo, Jimmy Sr shouted.—Like a good man.—Maybe you’re righ‘, he said to both Bimbo and Paddy.—It’s shockin’ though, isn’t it? The whole business.

  —Fuckin’ terrible, said Bimbo.

  —Come here, said Bertie.—Guess who I spied with my little eye this mornin’.

  —Who?

  —Someone beginnin’ with B.

  —Burgess!

  —Si.

  —Great. Where?

  —Swords.

  —How was he lookin’? said Jimmy Sr.

  —Oh, very thin an’ undernourished, said Bertie.—An’ creased.

  —Yahaah!

  Jimmy Sr rubbed his hands.

  —I nearly gave the poor cunt twopence, Bertie told them.

  They liked that.

  —There mustn’t be another mot so, said Paddy.—If he’s in rag order like tha’.

  —Unless she’s a brasser.

  —Were yeh talkin’ to him? Bimbo asked.

  —No, said Bertie.—I was on me way to learn how to use the phone.

  —Now, Leo called.—Four nice pints over here.

  —Leo wants yeh, Paddy told Jimmy Sr.

  Jimmy Sr brought the pints down to the table and sat down. Bertie picked up the remains of his old pint.

  —To the Signor Horge Burgess, he said.

  —Oh def’ny, said Bimbo.

  They rais
ed their glasses.

  —The fuckin’ eejit, said Jimmy Sr.

  —Ah now, said Bertie.—That’s not nice.

  Sharon was nowhere near the Abbey Mooney at eight o’clock on Tuesday.

  She lay in bed later, half expecting stones to start hitting the window. Or something.

  It was that Sharon Rabbitte one from across the road. She was pregnant. She’d come to the house. She was the one; she knew it.

  Dear Doris,

  I hope you are well——

  People probably knew already. They always did around here. Oh God, the shame; the mortification. She’d never be able to step out of the house again.

  I am writing to you to let you know why I left you last week—

  If he’d died and left her a widow it would’ve been different, alright; but this wasn’t fair. He was making her feel ashamed, the selfish bastard, and she hadn’t done anything.

  Doris, I’ve been having a bit of an affair with a girl.

  This girl is expecting—

  The Rabbitte one; it had to be.

  I am very sorry—

  It had to be.

  I hope you will understand, Doris. I cannot abandon this girl. She has no one else to look after her—

  The next bit was worse.

  I still love you, Doris. But I love this girl as well. I am, as the old song goes, torn between two lovers. I will miss you and the children very much—

  Oh God!

  He was her husband!

  Twenty-four years. It wasn’t her fault.

  P.S.

  I got a lend of the paper.

  Doris sniffed.

  He’d always been an eejit. She’d never be able to go out again.—Men got funny at George’s age. She’d noticed the same thing with her father. They went silly when there were girls near them; when her friends had been in the house. They tried to pretend that they weren’t getting old and made eejits out of themselves. And, God knew, George had a head start there.

  The Rabbitte one probably took money off him as well.

  Veronica made out Doris Burgess’s shape through the glass. The hair was the give-away.

  She opened the door.

  —Doris, she said.