Game of Throw-ins

by Ross O'Carroll-Kelly

  ‘It doesn’t matter what you do. You won’t change the way I feel about your grandfather or the way your grandfather feels about me. You won’t have that declared invalid.’

  ‘You might as well know, I’m going to your High Court. This lawyer I got is going to seek an injunction, forcing Grandpa to submit to tests to establish his state of mind. That’s word for word. And when they find out his true mental state, I can promise you this, Fionnuala – you won’t be getting shit.’

  Me and Christian run from, let’s call a spade a spade, Ballybrack all the way back to the Vico Road – we’re talking, what, three Ks? Except he’s not tossing chowder in Enya’s entranceway this time. He’s actually in proper shape.

  It’s, like, ten o’clock when we arrive back at the gaff. There’s, like, eight or nine cors in the driveway – we’re talking Toyota Rav4s, we’re talking Volvo S40s, we’re talking Volkswagen EOSs, we’re talking Honda CR-Vs.

  Honor, I notice, is outside, rooting around in the dashboard of my cor. She’s like, ‘Er, why do you have this?’ and she produces her iPod.

  I’m there, ‘I was, em, listening to something.’

  She presses the button in the middle of the click wheel. ‘Okay, why were you listening to Nicki Minaj?’

  ‘I don’t know. I just wanted to see what all the fuss was about.’

  ‘Oh my God, you’re so sad!’

  ‘Who owns all these cors, by the way? It’s not Sorcha’s book club tonight, is it?’

  Honor rolls her eyes. She goes, ‘No, she’s hosting a meeting – so-called – to set up The Mount Anville Africa Fund.’

  ‘Yeah, no, I forgot that was tonight.’

  Christian says he’s going to head back to Carrickmines and I tell him not before I fix us a couple of protein shakes he’s not. I put my key in the door and in we go. Through the living-room door I get the whiff of quiche and Tom Ford White Patchouli and I hear raised voices going, ‘Oh! My God!’, all the usual giveaways that your house is infested with Mounties.

  I turn around to Christian and I go, ‘Hang on a second,’ and then I stick my head around the door of the living room to see who else Sorcha and Muirgheal have managed to rope into this thing.

  The first girl I spot is actually Carolyn Fusco, a bird I got off with once or twice back in the day. She’s saying she took the liberty of ringing the Deportment of Foreign Affairs today to ask for a list of countries in Africa that would be, like, really, really poor, but still safe to visit for, like, Transition Year students.

  She says they mentioned Botswana.

  Muirgheal goes, ‘Oh my God, I spoke to Sister Obadiah at the school today and she also mentioned Botswana. She said it’s, like, one of the safest places in Africa. But the good news is it’s also got, like, Aids, storvation, blah, blah, blah. And the other thing that it’s got going for it is that it has some amazing, amazing safori tours!’

  Muirgheal, by the way, is the same Muirgheal that JP used to score, because I recognize her. The noises were hilarious – ssshhhllluuurrrppp, ssshhhllluuurrrppp, ssshhhllluuurrrppp – like a fat kid eating his way out of an ice-cream maze.

  No one notices me until I suddenly go, ‘Hey, there! I’ll tell you something – there’s one or two faces from the past in this room.’

  I do the same mental inventory I always do when I walk into a room of women. I’ve ridden one, two, three, four of them – five, if you want to include Sorcha.

  Sorcha’s there, ‘You all remember my husband, Ross, I presume?’ and they all go, ‘Yes,’ with – it has to be said – varying degrees of enthusiasm.

  ‘Okay,’ she goes, bringing the meeting to an end, ‘everyone knows their duties, yes?’

  And everyone’s like, ‘Yes!’

  ‘Okay, we’ll stort a What’s App group, but we’ll also meet back here, when, two weeks from tonight?’

  That seems to suit everyone. Off they go into the night, while I take Christian down to the kitchen to make him that drink.

  ‘I was actually dubious about the NutriBullet when Sorcha first bought it,’ I go. ‘I said to her, “I’ll take my meals in liquid form when I’m in a coma and not before then.” But I’ve actually got into it.’

  Sorcha has waved off all her Mountie friends, except Muirgheal, who’s obviously sticking around for coffee, because Sorcha turns on the Nespresso. ‘Oh my God,’ she goes, ‘I am so excited about this thing!’

  Muirgheal’s like, ‘Me, too. I mean, I’m in two book clubs and I have my Bikram and my Reformer Pilates, but I’d forgotten how much I enjoy having an actual project?’

  I’m like, ‘Fair focks to both of you. I’d be the first one to say it.’

  ‘By the way, where even is Botswana?’ Muirgheal goes. ‘As in, like, where in Africa?’

  Sorcha doesn’t know. I think it goes without saying that I don’t either. It’s actually Christian who comes up with the answer. ‘It’s towards the bottom,’ he goes. ‘Just above South Africa.’

  Muirgheal goes, ‘Oh my God! Brainiac, much?’

  Christian laughs. ‘I only know,’ he goes, ‘because Father Fehily spent a lot of time there when he was younger. He used to talk about it all the time.’

  It’s lovely to hear him talk about Father Fehily. I really feel that something of the old Christian is storting to return.

  Muirgheal obviously Googles ‘Botswana’ on her phone because she’s suddenly looking at her screen, going, ‘Okay, it’s got the second-highest prevalence of HIV slash Aids in the world! We’re talking twenty-four point eight per cent of adults between the ages of fifteen and forty-nine!’

  I’m there, ‘That sounds great.’

  ‘In fact,’ she goes, ‘the only country with a worse HIV slash Aids epidemic is Swaziland! Should that say Switzerland?’

  Sorcha’s like, ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘I’ve never heard of Swaziland.’

  ‘It does sound wrong. How are they spelling it?’

  ‘S, W, A, Z, I, L, A, N, D.’

  ‘That is random.’

  ‘It must mean Switzerland. Okay, epic fail, Wikipedia! Actually, Switzerland wouldn’t be a bad place to send kids either, even though it’s not in Africa. My cousin goes skiing there – oh my God, she always brings back amazing chocolate.’

  I finish making the shakes. I hand one to Christian. He takes a sip out of his, then goes, ‘So, like, how much money do you need to raise?’

  Sorcha’s there, ‘Enough to hopefully send the whole of Transition Year to Africa next year – I’m thinking initially, like, €100,000?’ and then her face all of a sudden changes, like she’s suddenly had an idea. ‘Oh my God!’ she goes. ‘Oh! My! Literally? God!’

  Muirgheal’s like, ‘What is it?’

  Sorcha’s there, ‘I’m actually blaming you, Christian, for mentioning South Africa! I’ve had an amazing idea how we can raise money!’

  ‘Is it a charity Strictly Come Dancing?’ Muirgheal goes. ‘Because that was going to be one of my suggestions. We could call it Strictly Botswana.’

  ‘This is even better. I’m going to put my letters from Nelson Mandela up for auction.’

  Fock! Off!

  Actually, I say that out loud.

  I go, ‘Fock! Off!’ and they all look at me. ‘Yeah, no, what I mean is, you know, why would you want to get rid of them? And I’m only asking that because I know how much they mean to you.’

  ‘Yes, I loved receiving them, Ross. And my correspondence with Madiba is one of the most – oh my God – amazing, amazing things that has ever happened to me. But now I have an opportunity to use my good fortune to open the eyes of future generations of Mount Anville students to the problems that Africa faces on a daily basis.’

  ‘Okay,’ I go, ‘I’ll phrase that a different way. Who the fock would want them? They’re to you. They’re all about you potentially switching to European Environmental Law. Who’s going to be interested in that?’

  She’s there, ‘He also talked about himself, Ross. I mean, tho
se letters are an amazing, amazing insight into Madiba’s state of mind at a very delicate stage of South Africa’s transition to a multi-porty democracy.’

  ‘I’m disagreeing with you. I think they’re boring. I was actually bored reading them.’

  ‘Well, I still think they’d be worth something.’

  Christian goes, ‘You know what, I could actually see, like, a university or someone like that buying them.’

  I wish he’d stay the fock out of it. He’s obviously forgotten that Oisinn wrote the things.

  Muirgheal goes, ‘I totally agree! Especially if, like Sorcha said, they shine a light on his thinking at a particular moment in, I don’t know, history?’

  She can keep her focking hooter to herself as well.

  Christian drinks his shake, then says he’s going to hit the road. Muirgheal knocks back her coffee and says she’ll have to do the same because she’s got Pilates in the morning.

  Off the two of them fock.

  Sorcha smiles at me. She goes, ‘By the way, Ross, I think it’s an amazing thing that you’re doing. Christian looks so well.’

  I’m there, ‘Hey, I just hope Lauren appreciates it.’

  Sorcha looks at me, all concern. ‘Ross,’ she goes, ‘you didn’t tell Christian that Lauren was going to come back to him, did you?’

  I’m there, ‘If he cleans up his act – yeah, no, I possibly implied that she would. To give him an incentive as much as anything else.’

  ‘Ross,’ she goes, ‘Lauren’s met someone. In France. His name is Loic and he’s a cinematographer.’

  It feels like I’ve suddenly been kicked in the stomach. All I can think to say is, ‘Okay, what the fock is a cinematographer? It sounds like another makey-uppy thing. Like Human Resources.’

  ‘I don’t know what exactly he does,’ Sorcha goes, ‘but he’s made, like, thirty movies.’

  ‘I think what I’m actually trying to say is, what the fock is Lauren playing at? She’s a married woman.’

  ‘Ross, she’s separated. The marriage is over. She told me that when she was home. She doesn’t love Christian anymore.’

  ‘She didn’t say that to me. She never mentioned any cinema-whatever-the-fock-he-is either. What kind of name is Loic anyway? He doesn’t sound like a rugby goy.’

  ‘I don’t know if he’s a rugby goy.’

  ‘He doesn’t sound like one. In which case I’m doubly disgusted with the girl.’

  ‘Ross, you’ve got to tell Christian the truth.’

  ‘I can’t now, can I? It’d set him back.’

  ‘Ross, it’s wrong to give him false hope. I really think you should tell him the truth.’

  ‘I’m actually going to do the opposite. I’m going to keep lying to him and hope that he never finds out.’

  It’s, like, Friday night, the night before we play Rainey Old Boys, and I’m just in the gym, lifting weights with the rest of the goys, listening to a bit of Calvin Harris – I thought he was a fashion designer – and talking about what an achievement it will be if we do manage to stay up. Two wins from our last three matches could even be enough.

  Bucky goes, ‘It’d be one of the greatest comebacks of all time. We had, like, zero points. Now we’re unbeaten in, what, four matches?’

  Senny’s like, ‘I said it to Torah last night. No matter what I go on to achieve in the game – be it European Cups, Six Nations championships, hopefully playing for the Lions – keeping Seapoint up would always rank right up there.’

  Seriously, it’s like having a conversation with my twenty-year-old self.

  I’m there, ‘Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. We’ve got to beat Rainey Old Boys first. Let’s all just stay focused on the next match.’

  And that’s when my phone all of a sudden rings. I check the screen and it ends up being Shadden again. I get this sudden feeling of – I think it’s a word? – forbodery?

  I answer by going, ‘Shadden? What’s the Jack?’

  She’s there, ‘Rosser?’ and I can straightaway tell that she’s crying. ‘Rosser, Ine skeered.’

  I’m there, ‘Scared? Scared of what? What’s going on?’

  ‘Someone’s arthur thrown a brick troo Rihatta-Barrogan’s bedroom window. I ren up the steers and her bed was all cubbered in glass.’

  I’m like, ‘Jesus Christ!’ because that’s my granddaughter she’s talking about. ‘Is she hurt?’

  ‘No,’ she goes, ‘she’s croying, but.’

  ‘Where’s Ronan?’

  ‘I don’t know where he is.’

  ‘What about your old man, focking K … K … K … Kennet?’

  ‘Him and me ma are out. Ine woodied about Ronan. This war he’s arthur getting mixed up in – Ine woodied where it’s going.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Shadden. It’s not going anywhere because it’s ending tonight. Where would I find this Scum who’s running the rival Love/Hate tour?’

  ‘If it’s Coolock Scum, it’s Deddick Tattan.’

  ‘Derek Tattan. That’s the dude. Shadden, where would I find this focking scumbag?’

  ‘I doatunt know.’

  ‘Shadden, think. I need to go and sort this – before someone is killed.’

  After a few seconds, she goes, ‘I know he thrinks in The Tipsy Wagon.’

  I’m there, ‘The Tipsy Wagon?’

  ‘It’s in Coolock.’

  ‘Okay, good. What does he look like? Shadden, I need to know what he looks like.’

  ‘Ine throyen to think, Rosser. He’s a skiddy fedda …’

  ‘Keep going.’

  ‘ … red heer. Galasses and rotten teet – that’s alls I know.’

  I’m there, ‘Okay, you did good, Shadden.’

  ‘What are you gonna do?’ she goes.

  ‘I’m going to pay our friend a little visit. Now, what you’re going to do is take Rihanna-Brogan and go to your sister’s.’

  ‘Kadden’s in Tederife. I’ll go to Dadden’s.’

  ‘Go to Dadden’s then. And if Ronan rings, tell him it’s sorted.’

  I go outside and I hop into the cor. Forty minutes later, I’m pulling into the cor pork of The Tipsy Wagon pub in Coolock.

  Straight into the actual boozer I morch.

  I spot him straightaway, even though the place is rammers. Shadden’s description ends up being pretty much spot-on. He’s sitting in a corner, drinking a pint and watching the nine o’clock news on RTÉ.

  He’s, like, mid-to-late forties and – like Shadden said – skinny, with red hair and freckles, glasses that have got, like, a dork tint, and a mouth like a sink full of broken dishes. Oh, and a Christmas jumper with tracksuit bottoms.

  I straightaway hate him, if I didn’t already. I feel my blood stort to boil, like it used to whenever I saw photographs of Rory McIlroy with Caroline Wozniacki.

  I walk over to him and I’m like, ‘Scum?’

  ‘All depends,’ he goes. ‘Who’s aston?’

  I go, ‘I’m asking.’

  ‘And who the fook are you?’

  ‘Let’s just say I’m an associate of Ronan’s. Ronan who runs the Love/Hate Tour of Dublin?’

  ‘So?’

  I’m there, ‘I hear you’ve got a problem with him.’

  ‘I’ve no probem with him,’ he goes, then he laughs. ‘Not addy mower. The problem has been sorthed – did he not tell you what happent?’

  ‘Oh, what, you think just because you attacked his home – threw a brick through his daughter’s actual bedroom window – that that’s going to be the end of it?’

  ‘I nebber troo a brick troo addyone’s window.’

  ‘Do you expect me to believe that? You already burned out his bus and his caravan. You and your scumbag mates went for him with machetes.’

  ‘Did you just say scumbag?’

  ‘That’s all they are. That’s all you are.’

  He goes, ‘You’ve some bleaten balls cubbing in hee-or and saying that. Take my advice, pal – turden arowunt and get the fook ourra hee-or.’


  I’m there, ‘I’m not focking scared of you, Scum. If I have to deck you, I will. I’m here to end this thing.’

  He goes to grab something out of his inside pocket – I’m presuming a knife – but I’m too quick for him. I grab him by the front of his jumper and I lift him off his stool. It doesn’t take a lot of strength. There’s not a lot of meat on his bones. I hold him steady with my left hand and I punch him full in the face with my right, breaking his glasses and sending him sprawling across the deck, furniture falling everywhere.

  ‘Ah, hee-or!’ the borman goes.

  Scum ends up just lying on the ground with his back against the bor, his glasses broken and hanging from one ear.

  People are looking around and they’re also going, ‘Ah, hee-or!’

  I’m there, ‘Don’t you ever – and I mean ever! – threaten Ronan or his family again. If you do, I won’t hestitate to come back here and deck you a second time if that’s what I end up having to do?’

  Scum takes off his broken glasses, then touches his nose and stares at the blood on his fingers with a look of, like, disbelief – like he’s never seen his own blood before and he’s surprised at the colour. He looks at me then and laughs.

  I sense that the atmosphere in the pub is storting to dorken. I stort making my way towards the door. ‘You’re gonna be soddy for that,’ Scum goes.

  And suddenly this sick feeling washes over me, the sense that I might live to regret what I just did – and that’s only if I’m very, very lucky.

  Sorcha’s got, like, tears in her eyes as she gives her Nelson Mandela letters one last read.

  ‘It’s not too late to change your mind,’ I go. ‘I still say you should keep them. I mean, fock Africa.’

  She goes, ‘I told you what the woman in Sotheby’s said when I rang. They could be worth up to €100,000! Maybe even more!’

  Honor suddenly looks up from her phone. This is at, like, the breakfast table?

  ‘A hundred grand?’ she goes, snatching one of them out of Sorcha’s hand. ‘Seriously? For these?’

  Sorcha’s there, ‘Be careful with them Honor. Madiba said a lot of things in these letters that he never said publicly before, especially in relation to finding common ground between Inkatha and the ANC.’