The Irish Lottery Series Box Set (1-3)

by Gerald Hansen

  “Ach, sure, this is a quare aul craic!” Padraig squealed.

  Padraig had recently graduated from rocks to paint bombs thanks to Declan. His best mate had learned everything a ten-year-old schoolboy needed to know about malicious diversions from his older brothers. Caoilte, Fergal and Eamonn McDaid had been in and out of Magilligan Prison as if a revolving door had been installed for their personal use and were now the city’s main Ecstasy dealers.

  Old Mrs. Feeney, in a perm long past its prime, rounded the corner, a face on her like a bulldog’s licking piss off a nettle. Declan reached for the broken brick, but Mr. Murphy teetered out of the newsagent’s, puny fist shaking.

  “Fecking rowdie bastards!” he croaked.

  “Ach, go and shite, you!” Declan hollered.

  Declan tossed the brick inches from his elbow, Padraig took aim at his tattered shoes.

  “Clear on off out of here, youse!” Mrs. Feeney called out.

  She trembled up at them on the railing, the triteness of her age overpowered by rage, her eyes able to drive rats from a barn. Mrs. Feeney hadn’t suffered a lifetime of civil war, sons gunned down in their prime, to be victimized in the relative calm of the peace process. The Brit paratroopers had departed, and the need for senseless violence was gone, but that didn’t mean it had departed her beloved city.

  “Ach, piss off, ye crabbit aul slapper,” Declan snorted as Mr. Murphy shuffled gratefully around the corner, leaving Mrs. Feeney to fend for herself.

  “That aul one there could be yer own grandda. If youse is so desperate to have it out with someone, have it out with me!”

  Padraig and Declan howled with laughter. Mrs. Feeney pointed a shuddering digit at Padraig.

  “I know ye, wee boy. Yer auntie Ursula’s me caretaker for OsteoCare. She’s up in me house every Thursday, and I’ll be on to her about ye, so I will! Ye’re a bad wee brute! Ye kyanny help it, like, as yer mother’s one of them rowdy Heggarty’s! Yer auntie Ursula’s the only one in the flimmin pack of ye that’s got a decent Christian bone in her body. That one's never outta the church, always has a smile for everyone she sees—”

  “Shut yer bake and clear on off outta here, or ye’ll get a rock in yer skull!” Declan roared.

  An enraged Dymphna, clutching a video of Pretty Woman, rounded the corner of the parade and stormed up to them through the panorama of broken glass and dog shite.

  “Padraig!” she hollered. “What in the name of feck do ye think ye’re playing at? Away from that aul one now!”

  “Ach, eff off, you!” Declan sneered into her face.

  “Roaring abuse at elderly ones nine times yer age!” she barked.

  Padraig hung his head. Dymphna turned to Mrs. Feeney.

  “C’mon you away now, love,” she urged, gently ushering the pensioner further down the pavement. “I’ll take care of them rowdies.”

  Her hand caressed the old one’s tartan-clad elbow.

  “I can take care of meself,” Mrs. Feeney spat, heaving herself free and dealing Dymphna a feeble kick in the shin. “Ye Heggarty bitch, ye!”

  Declan doubled over with snickers. Padraig looked sharply at him. Mrs. Feeney shuffled towards Boots the Chemist, turned and flipped Dymphna off. “Nine times his age, me hole, ye daft cunt, ye!”

  She disappeared into the store as Dymphna exploded.

  “Ye see what ye’re doing to the family name? Showing us up like that! I'm mortified, so I'm are!” She turned to Declan. “Ye’re leading me brother down the path to Hell.”

  “Ach, feck off, ye slapper. Padraig and me is best mates. Aye?”

  Dymphna gave a disgusted shake of the head and left them, racing to the video store. Another five minutes and she’d have to pay the late fee.

  “What yer sister needs is a head job,” Declan snorted.

  Padraig blinked, knowing, as every Derry schoolchild did, that a ‘head job’ was IRA parlance for a hood over the head and a bullet through it.

  “We’ve no gun,” Padraig said.

  “More’s the pity. We can still make the cunt’s life pure misery. Let’s bomb her.”

  “With paint?” Padraig asked, relieved.

  Declan snorted. “Paint bombs is for wanes! I’ve something grander in mind.”

  Padraig shifted uncomfortably. He knew well enough what generally followed paint bombs in the list of malicious crimes of diversion.

  “She’s me sister,” he said weakly.

  “Aye, and a right narky bitch to boot! Yer hateful sister’s to be the target of wer very first petrol bomb!”

  Padraig looked up at the darkening sky with a dramatic scowl.

  “I kyanny be late for wer tea. Ye know what me mammy’s like, like.”

  Declan snorted.

  “I never woulda taken ye for a feardy custard,” he said.

  Padraig tensed. Being called a feardy custard, a coward, was an insult on par with arse bandit or nancy boy.

  “If ye kyanny discuss wer plans like a hard man... Feardy custard! Feardy custard!” Declan trailed off his chant with a baited sneer, eyebrow raised in a taunt.

  “Naw, naw,” Padraig said quickly. “Let’s get us a petrol bomb and toss it in her geebag face!”

  £ £ £ £

  Ursula glanced up at her hairdresser, Molly, who was twittering around her with a gratitude that was unnatural and becoming increasingly irritating.

  Why was your woman making such a grand carry-on over a box of flimmin chocolates? Well, it was obvious Ursula had shown up the staff, as she couldn’t see amongst the shelves of crimpers and conditioners any cards on display, or obvious gifts they might have given.

  Outside on the cobblestones stood Dymphna, who knew, as everybody in the city seemed to, that Ursula had her hair done at Xpressions every Wednesday at two. She peered through the window and paused at the door, hating herself, before pushing it open and poking her head inside.

  Ursula caught sight of Dymphna and tensed, the enemy invading her camp, the trollop’s hand clutching a McDonald’s bag. Ursula noted the receipt crumpled in her niece’s fingers with slight surprise; she hadn’t thought that her niece with the shifty fingers ever paid for anything.

  “I'm here for Ursula,” Dymphna announced.

  The junior stylists parted to let her through. As Dymphna stomped over, Ursula shirked slightly. Dymphna attempted a pleasant smile.

  “C’mere now, Ursula,” she whispered. “A wee word in yer ear?”

  Dymphna motioned to the front door with a jerk of the head.

  Ursula hesitated. Dymphna might well have a gang of mates outside, waiting to hurl insults or rocks at her the moment she stepped out the door. She wouldn’t put anything past her hardened stoke of a niece. Steeling herself, Ursula nodded and followed with heavy steps. The staff and clientele all watched her go.

  Dymphna flicked open the door and bounded to the pavement. Ursula lingered in the doorway.

  “What?” she asked flatly.

  Dymphna looked around the crowded street, then learned forward like a best mate with gossip to spread.

  “I know ye saw me nicking that pregnancy test the other day in the Top-Yer-Trolly.”

  “Aye, and?” Ursula asked, hand still on the door. She glared down at this brazen trollop, affronted to call her family, and was shocked when Dymphna burst into tears.

  “I'm pregnant,” she admitted, delving her hand into the McDonald’s bag and pulling out a napkin to daub her watery eyes. “I took the test the other day, and I know it’s true.”

  Somewhere in the depths of her heart, Ursula felt a softening, an empathy she hadn’t addressed in decades, seeing a desperate wane caught in the hopeless situation of single motherhood. And, just as suddenly, her eyes flickered with suspicion as she realized the only reason Dymphna could possibly be confiding in her. She was, quite frankly, flabbergasted.

  They were attacking her from all angles, those Floods, greedy palms outstretched, demanding free payouts. She wouldn’t even have put it past the scheming
bitch Dymphna to have orchestrated the entire scenario, lurking in the aisles next to the foot creams until she caught old pushover auntie Ursula shopping in the Top-Yer-Trolly, and lying about being up the scoot just so she could wheedle some spending cash for a few pop CDs of the day and a bright frilly frock from Warehouse. Ursula’s voice and face grew hard.

  “And just what do ye want me to do about it?” she asked stiffly. “I expect ye’ll be wanting me to pay for the termination? All you and yer family ever wants me for is that flimmin lotto money, sure. Well, ye’re off yer head if ye think me check book’s gonny be pulled out for this occasion.”

  She turned to go inside, suddenly cold and impatient and full of hatred. Dymphna stared, genuinely startled, at Ursula’s mention of a termination. Her tears contracted to sniffles.

  “Naw,” she sniffled, touching Ursula’s elbow. Dymphna felt her tense. “A termination’s the furthest thing from me mind. It’s against the law, sure.”

  Ursula felt the pangs of resentment growing as they stood there on the pavement with the shoppers bumping into them, tears rolling down her niece’s face as if she had caused them, the stench of American fries escaping from the bag in her hand.

  Sure, her life was misery enough, Ursula thought, and this shameless tart stood before her able to afford flash Yank fast food was part of that misery. She turned back to Dymphna

  “What do ye want from me, then?”

  “Just don’t go telling me mammy and daddy,” Dymphna implored with an approximation of desperation. “I'm gonny tell em meself. Sure, I won’t be able to hide it soon enough, like, so they’re gonny have to know. I wanny wait until I'm ready, but.”

  Ursula searched her niece’s face for a trace of craftiness and was almost disappointed she couldn’t find any.

  “It would take a sight more than a pregnant wane for me to race to yer mother for a session of hot gossip. I’ve other things to do with me life, ye know,” Ursula said with a bitter laugh. “Is that it, then?”

  Dymphna nodded with slight uncertainty.

  “Grand,” Ursula said. “Then this discussion between us is over. Ye’ve me word yer parents won’t hear of yer foolishness from me own lips, at any rate. God luck to ye.”

  “Ach, sure that’s wile civil of ye, Ur—”

  Ursula slammed the hairdresser’s door as she went back inside.

  “Wile sorry about the delay, Molly,” Ursula said, more out of convention than apology.

  But with a box of chocolates and a wee card, how could Molly have the heart to be narked? Themmuns is me favorites, sure, Molly was thinking, Cadbury’s Rose’s. And wile dear! But how in the name of feck did Ursula get it into her head that the day was me birthday? It doesn’t be till November, sure, miles away!

  Dymphna flounced down the pavement in a rage. How the flimmin feck had that aul bitch caught me out? She wondered. How had Ursula immediately known she wanted a loan of her endless cash reserves to flush that Orange bastard out of her system? She now knew her faith had been misguided, and her mammy and daddy were right after all: Ursula Barnett was nothing but a scabby, scaldy tight-fisted cunt!

  £ £ £ £

  Slouching into the scullery, Fionnuala glowered in sudden fury at the sight of a plate wrapped in aluminum foil languishing beside the dripping sink. Two sausages and some turnips, the leftovers of the family’s tea the night before, were to have been Eda’s sustenance that afternoon. Before she had left for her round of pub loo scrubbing, she had told Padraig to take it around the corner to his granny’s house

  Hearing a sudden unhinged giggle from the four square feet of concrete and crabgrass that was their back garden, Fionnuala looked out the scullery window. She peered past the sopping bed sheets weeping in a damp breeze on the wash line, and her eyes rounded, incensed. The window rattled with the fury of her fist.

  Declan and Padraig glanced up in alarm, just in time to witness Fionnuala’s apoplectic face disappear from between the faded daisies of the curtains.

  “Fecking shite!” Padraig hissed. “Me mammy!”

  The back door to the house flew open. Padraig scrambled to hide the canisters and petrol, the fizzy lemonade bottles and rags. Declan just sat on his haunches on the grass, a smug look on his face. Fionnuala barreled towards them, housekeeping smock flying and toilet roll trailing from her left shoe.

  “What in the name of merciful Christ is youse wanes playing at now? Paint bombs again? Ye never pay me one blind bit of notice, do ye?”

  She grabbed Declan’s left earlobe and hauled the child to his feet.

  “Outta me back garden, you, or I'm ringing yer mother!”

  Her eyes widened abruptly.

  “Jaysismaryandjoseph and a wee donkey! That’s not fecking petrol ye have there, ye fecking simple eejit wanes?”

  Declan roared in anguish as her fingernails gouged his flesh.

  “Are youse away in the head?” Fionnuala demanded.

  “Get offa me, ye bleedin gacky sleekit geebag toerag, ye!” Declan snarled, delving into his repertoire of abusive terms for annoying people.

  His arms flailed for a crack at Fionnuala’s skull. She snatched his wrists and tugged his face to her own. Declan struggled free, his hand whipping once again towards her face.

  “Ye see if ye grab hold of me again—” he warned.

  She grabbed his wrists a second time and dared with a hiss into his face: “Aye, you just try it, son. I’ll be marching yer hateful wee body down to the cop shop, and they can batter the living shite outta ye with their truncheons. That’s after I’ve finished clattering ye meself!”

  She threw the child to the yellow crabgrass. Declan struggled to his feet, shuddering with rage, and scurried off, flipping Fionnuala off.

  “Eff off you, ye crabbit aul crone!” he called with a sudden squeal of brazen laughter. He disappeared through the back gate.

  “He’s a bad wee brute, him,” Fionnuala panted. “His mother’s a right sarky slapper and all.”

  “Mammy!” Padraig wailed. “I'm mortified! Ye’ve showed me up in front of me mate!”

  “I’ll show ye up in the intensive care unit of Altnagelvin hospital, so I will!” Fionnuala seethed. “Mortified me effin hole! What in the name of feck do ye think ye’re playing at, wee boy, hanging around with rowdies like that Declan? Ye wanny end up in the nick, in prison, like yer brother, like?”

  A teary silence greeted her. She grabbed a petrol-filled bottle and thrust it under his nose. Padraig whimpered against the concrete of the garden shed, trapped. The rim of the bottle grazed his nostrils.

  “I'm after asking ye a question, ye bloody eejit! And I want an effin answer now! Ye think yer brother’s a hard man, locked up in his cell, sent down to Magilligan for Grievous Bodily bloody Harm, do ye? Do ye know what goes on in them fecking cells? No sunshine, no Internet, no bloody fecking freedom! Perishing in the dead cold as they march his flippin body up and down the courtyard for hours on end, nancy boys and poofters grabbing at his arse at all hours of the day and night!”

  Fionnuala threw the bottle to the grass.

  “Ye want yer life to be a dead loss? Have ye given it a moment’s thought? Naw, ye haven’t, because ye’re a simple wee gack, kyanny think more than seven minutes into the future. Clear that lot up now, or I swear by almighty God they’ll be queuing up for that young arse of yers down at Magilligan! And I told ye to take them sausingers round to yer granny’s hours ago. The aul pensioner’s probably perishing with hunger now!”

  Padraig simpered up at her.

  “Me granny makes me fear-hearted. She’s off her head, always muttering to herself, and that house’s boggin, fairly reeking of piss.”

  Whack! Whack! Whack!

  Fionnuala dealt him three sharp smacks across the face.

  “Ye were a right hard man two seconds ago when yer mate was here!” she bellowed. “And now ye’re letting on you be’s afeared of yer dottering aul granny?! She’s a thorn in the side of us all, a lunatic headbin, right enough,
that don’t mean she kyanny shovel down the food, but!”

  She grabbed his hands and seemed on the verge of another tirade, thought the better of it, and flung his hands down.

  “And them hands is absolutely mingin and all,” she said. “I want them washed after ye clear off that lot, and before ye touch that plate of yer granny’s!”

  She turned to march back into the house, and it was then that Declan came at her with the poker.

  £ £ £ £

  “I kyanny fathom it!” Ursula wailed, angrily rumpling Jed’s sweatshirt into something resembling a fold.

  Jed shifted uncomfortably before the football game blazing from the massive flat screen television and slipped the scratch card under his butt-stuffed ashtray. Ursula glared at the glass of white zinfandel at his side and resented his good spirits. She wrenched up a shirt and folded with a terse hand.

  “Me sister Roisin had the bloody cheek to waste a long distance call from Hawaii just to accuse me of snatching away that mingin tip of 5 Murphy from the family. Nobody ever wanted to lay a finger on them crumbling bricks and mortar, never gave that house a moment’s thought until, she’s now after telling me, I decided to take it off the city council’s hands.”

  Jed slipped a scratch card out from under the ashtray, pretending to rearrange his cigarette butts. He discreetly scratched a pence piece against one of the six silver circles. Win.

  “She probably just wants to stay in the house of your childhood,” Jed said. “It’s only natural.”

  Only five more wins, and £5000 would be his. More than enough for that damn ticket.

  “Wer childhood!” Ursula exploded. “When we was wanes, they was bleedin desperate to escape that flippin firetrap of a house! Couldn’t wait for the day they’d be free from them rotting floorboards!”

  Scratch, scratch. Win!

  “So many of us was shoved into them four walls, wanes sitting atop each other in the front room, sleeping three to a bed, wer fannys and arses pressed up against one other, sweltering in the summer, starving in the winter, infested with lice more months than not...”

  Jed sat in shock. Three weeks earlier, against a backdrop of outraged uproar from her entire family combined, Ursula had forced him to purchase that “mingin tip” with the remnants of their lotto winnings, against his better judgment and at the expense of the fishing boat he had wanted.