She gives me a look of just, like, disbelief.
‘The circumstances?’ she goes. ‘In what circumstances is it okay to kill a dolphin, Ross?’
I’m like, ‘Sorcha, don’t be so naïve. People think they’re great just because they go around smiling all the time. Dolphins can be pricks, Sorcha. Wake up to that fact.’
‘Pricks?’
‘Yeah, I’m using that word. And this one was a real prick. He pretended to be a shork.’
She doesn’t have an answer to that. But just as her old man senses that I’m getting the upper hand in the conversation, he decides to throw his thoughts into the mix.
He goes, ‘Bundoran? Wait a minute, I read about this incident – in The Irish Times.’
I go, ‘Yeah, I think it comes as a surprise to everyone in this room that you even read the sports pages.’
Honor is obviously worried that Sorcha has bought my mistaken identity storyline, because she goes, ‘I’ve been really upset about it, Mom. I’ve been having nightmares. I think I’m disturbed.’
I’m there, ‘We’ve all moved on from this, Honor. I can’t believe you’re still talking about it. I was surfing and I saw a fin in the water. I thought it was a shork and I reacted by smashing it over the head with my surfboard. There’s nothing more to say about it than that.’
Sorcha is still dubious, though. She goes, ‘Ross, do you know how much money I’ve given to dolphin conservation charities over the years?’
I’m there, ‘A lot would be my guess.’
‘I’ve got three standing orders.’
‘Yeah, no, I thought it was going to be more that that.’
‘And you’re going around just gratuitously killing them.’
‘Seriously, Sorcha, you’re worse than Gerry Thornley. We kill millions of fish in this country every focking day. I don’t know why everyone’s so obsessed with this one focking dolphin.’
‘A dolphin isn’t a fish, Ross. It’s a mammal.’
‘Think about what you’ve just said there, Sorcha. Then think about the focking shape.’
Honor goes, ‘I really feel I’ve been affected by this, Mom – I’m talking, like, mentally? What if I end up becoming a serial killer?’
I’m there, ‘If you ended up becoming a serial killer, Honor, I honestly think I’d say, “Hey, she could have turned out a lot focking worse.” ’
Sorcha goes, ‘Ross, can you please leave the room?’
I’m like, ‘I haven’t had any birthday cake.’
Then she says it again – except she roars it this time? ‘Ross, can you please leave the room?’
I’m there, ‘Fine. I probably shouldn’t be eating cake anyway. I’ve got an important match coming up in two days – if anyone in this house knew the first thing about rugby.’
As I’m leaving the room, I hear Honor go, ‘Oh! My God! Hill! Air!’ even though – little does she know – the joke is actually on her.
Five minutes later, I’m lying on the bed, reflecting on another one of the Rossmeister General’s famous escapes. Better to be hung for a dead dolphin than a dead South African president. That’s my philosophy.
But that’s when the question suddenly hits me out of nowhere. If Honor didn’t steal the Mandela letters from my pocket, then who the fock did?
And the answer comes to me straightaway.
Oh! Focking! Shit!
It had to be Caleb.
Flidais looks at me in a way that I can’t even put into words. It is eight o’clock on a Friday morning. And she’s probably copped by now that the phone number I gave her was basically horseshit.
She’s like, ‘What the hell do you want?’
The more I disappoint women sexually, the more they seem to want me. What’s that about?
‘I’m not here to see you,’ I go. ‘I’m here to see Caleb. He stole something from me that night I was here.’
She’s there, ‘Oh, let me guess – your underwear?’
I go, ‘No, nothing like that. It was just some letters from Nelson Mandela. It’s a long story. Suffice it to say that if I don’t get them back, my marriage is going to be over.’
‘You told me your marriage was over.’
‘Hey, maybe you just heard what you wanted to hear.’
‘No, you actually said it, Ross. You said you were only staying together for the kids.’
‘Jesus Christ, grow up, Flidais. Seriously, if you’re thinking about going back into the dating game, you’d better develop a better bullshit detector – that’s all I’m saying on the subject. Now, is Caleb home or not?’
That’s when he suddenly appears in the hall behind her. He tips down the stairs, dressed for school.
I’m there, ‘Caleb, I need those letters.’
He goes, ‘What does this idiot want?’
‘Caleb, look, I know you and me didn’t exactly get off to the best of storts. A lot of that was down to me – I’m going to admit that. But you could do a lot of damage with those letters.’
‘What letters?’
‘Come on, don’t play the innocent. The eight letters that Nelson Mandela wrote to Sorcha – which are of massive sentimental value to the girl – and then the letter from Sotheby’s saying they’re basically bullshit.’
He looks at his old dear, pretending to be baffled. He goes, ‘I have literally no idea what he’s talking about.’
I’m there, ‘Look, I need them back. So, as a gesture of goodwill, I’m going to do something for you,’ and now it’s my turn to look at Flidais. ‘Your son didn’t steal Sorcha’s bras,’ I go. ‘Or her knickers for that matter.’
She’s there, ‘Excuse me?’
It’s a bit early in the morning for all of this and I’m saying that in her defence.
I’m there, ‘Look, he was definitely perving over her and generally creeping us all out. But he didn’t take her underwear. Honor planted all that shit on him. She set him up because he was only using her to get to her old dear.’
Flidais looks at me, appalled.
‘You let me think it was Caleb?’ she goes. ‘And you knew the truth all along?’
I’m there, ‘Don’t twist this around to make me seem like the bad goy. It was Honor who did it. And she had her reasons. Your son made her feel like she was just a Plain Jane, which she probably is, in fairness. Okay, Caleb, I’ve done that for you – now give me the letters.’
He’s there, ‘I already told you. I don’t know anything about any letters.’
He seems to be telling the truth.
Flidais goes, ‘You heard that, did you? Now get the hell away from my door.’
She slams the door in my face. She’s hurt. I’m not saying she doesn’t have her reasons.
I shout through the door, ‘There’s bigger wankers than me out there, Flidais! You’ll hopefully find that out in time.’
Then I turn on my heel and I walk back to the cor. I sit there for, like, a minute or so, just turning this thing over and over in my head. If Honor didn’t take the letters and Caleb didn’t take the letters, then what the fock happened to them?
It’s turning out to be a genuine mystery.
I’m just about to turn the key in the ignition when there’s a tap on the window on the passenger side. I look up. It ends up being Caleb. I open the electric window.
I’m like, ‘I can’t believe I got you off the hook for nothing.’
He smiles at me. ‘Not for nothing,’ he goes, then he reaches inside his school jumper and pulls out an envelope, which is, like, folded in two. He opens it out. I can see the little logo on the front saying Sotheby’s.
I’m like, ‘Caleb, please – I told your old dear the truth.’
He’s there, ‘Yes, you did,’ and he hands the envelope to me through the window.
‘Look,’ I go, ‘I’m sorry for everything, including – you know – doing the dirty deed with your mother.’
He’s there, ‘She has a weakness for assholes.’
I laugh. I suppose
I can afford to?
I’m like, ‘Look, either way, you don’t know what it means to me to get this back. I can actually fully focus now on tomorrow’s match and the job of keeping Seapoint in … wait a minute, this envelope’s empty.’
He’s there, ‘Yes, I know.’
‘So where are the letters from Mandingo and the bit of paper from Sotheby’s saying they’re a crock?’
He smiles at me, like he’s waited for this moment for a long time.
‘I cycled up to your house this morning at seven o’clock. I posted them through the letterbox – in an envelope addressed to Sorcha.’
Shit, I stepped over that on the way out the door half an hour ago.
I look at the clock in the cor. It’s, like, ten past eight. If I really put my foot down, there’s a chance I could still get back to the gaff before Sorcha finds it.
Caleb’s there, ‘Drive carefully, Ross!’ as I do a quick wheelspin and tear off in the direction of the Vico Road.
Five minutes later, I’m walking through the front door. The first thing I do, of course, is check the floor. Shit, it’s gone.
Then I’m thinking, Okay, try to think of a way to spin this. You’ve got out of tighter corners than this, Rossmeister.
And that’s when I hear Sorcha’s voice from the end of the hallway. ‘It’s okay,’ she goes, ‘I found it, Ross.’
I can see from her face that she’s been crying. I notice the Nelson Mandela letters in her hand.
Of course I still fancy my chances of bluffing my way out of it.
I’m there, ‘Bad news in the post, Sorcha?’
She goes, ‘This didn’t come in the regular post. But funnily enough, do you know what did, Ross?’
‘Er, no.’
‘A letter for you. I accidentally opened it. It was from a solicitor. That woman from the Computer Laboratory in Sandyford is suing you for sexual harassment.’
‘Random. I take it that’s the reason you’re upset?’
‘Well, for most wives, that’d be enough, I suppose. But when you’re married to someone like you, Ross, you never know what’s coming next. So I opened the second envelope – a brown one. No stamp. Someone obviously pushed it through the letterbox.’
‘Again, I’m going to say random.’
‘It turns out that those letters, which I’ve cherished all these years, weren’t written by Madiba after all.’
‘Any specific idea who did write them?’
‘There was also a note in the envelope, Ross. From Caleb.’
‘Caleb? Why is that name familiar?’
‘He said he found them in your jacket pocket. While you were upstairs with his mother.’
There’s no point in me lying here. But, equally, I think, Fock it, I might as well give it a go.
I’m there, ‘That kid and his lies again. I think he belongs in psychiatric care.’
Coolly, calmly, she goes, ‘Ross, I want you out of this house.’
I’m like, ‘Sorcha, can we possibly wait a day or two to do this? I’ve got this match tomorrow, bear in mind, and it’s important that I don’t let anything affect my focus.’
‘I’ve packed you a bag. It’s upstairs on the landing. Kiss Honor and the boys goodbye.’
‘Sorcha, do you not think you’re possibly overreacting?’
‘I’ve spoken to my mom and dad.’
‘Yeah, I’d say they had a lot to say on the subject.’
‘Yes, they did. And now I need some time by myself to decide what I’m going to do.’
I arrive at the old man’s gaff in the early afternoon, with my bag slung over my shoulder, to find the place full of his old mates.
I totally forgot it was the first of May.
The gaff is so rammers, in fact, that I end up having to literally fight my way through crowds of people to even find him. It’s just like old times, except there seems to be even more excitement for whatever reason.
I hear some barrister mate of Hennessy’s go, ‘He’s like Charles O’Carroll-Kelly from years ago! No, no, he’s the Charles O’Carroll-Kelly I knew thirty years ago!’
I finally spot him through a scrum of bodies in the living room. He’s smoking a Cohiba, running his hand through his hair, and he’s telling the story about the time at a charity auction when he outbid the great Michael Fingleton for the prize of dinner at The Dorchester with the great Jack Kyle.
I end up spoiling the punchline for him.
‘You ended up inviting Michael Fingleton along to The Dorchester as a third guest,’ I go. ‘I can’t believe you’re still dining out on that story.’
He’s not even pissed off with me. He’s like, ‘Kicker! What about this turn-out? Like the old days, eh?’
I’m like, ‘Yeah, no, whatever. I’m going to be staying with you for a while. I hope Helen’s cool with that. Sorcha’s focked me out of the house.’
He’s pretty shocked by the news, in fairness to him. ‘She’s thrown you out?’ he goes. ‘What, the day before Seapoint take on Bruff with their All Ireland League Division 2B survival at stake?’
‘There was no talking to her?’
‘Did you mention that you needed to remain focused what with the match tomorrow?’
‘Tried to. But you know what women are like.’
‘Amare et sapere vix deo conceditur, Ross.’
‘I don’t know what that means.’
‘Does anyone, I’m inclined to wonder?’
‘I’m probably going to need some money, by the way. I may need to pay off an Indian I supposedly sexually harrassed. That’s got nothing to do with why Sorcha focked me out, by the way, before you try to make that connection.’
‘Well, it’s not a problem, Ross. I’ll talk to Hennessy about making some kind of settlement.’
‘Do you not want to know what it’s even about?’
‘It’ll be something or other, I’m sure. Anyway, before I make the big announcement, Hennessy and I have a tradition that we must observe!’
Off he goes.
I’m about to head upstairs and get settled into my room when all of a sudden Christian arrives. I’m pretty surprised to see him here, but not half as surprised as he is to see me.
I’m like, ‘What’s wrong? You’re still playing for us tomorrow, aren’t you?’
He’s there, ‘Yeah, of course. But I just called out to Honalee. Sorcha said you two were having problems and you were going to be living here for the time being.’
‘Yeah, no, the day before we play Bruff,’ I go, ‘and she decides to spring that one on me. She knows how to pick her moments, I’ll say that for the girl.’
‘So what happened?’
‘I might as well tell you. She found out that those Nelson Mandela letters were forgeries – even though I should have told her about Oisinn’s port in the whole thing. Then there was me killing that dolphin. And riding a woman with a skinhead. And another thing where I sexually harrassed an Indian.’
‘Jesus Christ, Ross.’
‘I know. I need to possibly simplify my life. And seeing as it’s all coming out now, I should possibly also mention that I lied to you.’
‘To me?’
‘About Lauren saying that she’d come back to you if you got your shit together. I only said that so you would get your shit together. It was the carrot-and-stick approach. Lauren was the carrot.’
‘Ross, me and Lauren are over.’
‘I know that now. She’s no interest in you. I should have told you that from the beginning. Some dick called Loic. A cinema photographer, by all accounts. He sounds like a real piece of work.’
‘What I mean, Ross, is that I’m cool with it.’
‘How could you be?’
‘Ross, I’ve met someone myself.’
‘Who? You’re a dork focking horse!’
‘Look, I might as well tell you, it’s Sorcha’s friend, Muirgheal?’
‘Muirgheal? From that focking Africa thing?’
‘Yeah, we’ve been seeing a
bit of each other.’
‘Here, settle an argument for me, will you? Does she still make that funny slurping noise when she kisses?’
‘What?’
‘Forget I said anything. Fair focks is what I actually mean.’
Suddenly, I notice the old man take his place on the sofa. Then Hennessy sits down beside him. There’s a lot of excited chatter in the room. It’s, like, an air of anticipation or something?
I turn around to Christian and I go, ‘You know Hennessy there is going to destroy you in the divorce courts?’
Christian laughs. ‘Yeah, I know,’ he goes, ‘I’ve got all that to look forward to as well!’
I notice Kennet appear from nowhere. He goes, ‘L … L … L … Layties and genteddle men, can we p … p … p … please have sidence ford a moment.’
I’m suddenly thinking, They’re not going to do it, are they? They’re not about to do the Cock of Foxrock?
There’s, like, suddenly a hush in the room? I’m thinking, Oh my God, they are going to do it.
The Cock of Foxrock was an annual endurance test in which my old man attempted to eat a 200-gramme block of mature red Cheddar faster than Hennessy could drink a pint of lager with a dessert spoon. Traditionally, the winner – who was crowned the Cock of Foxrock – got to make the keynote speech that was the centrepiece of Charles O’Carroll-Kelly’s May Day Political Think-In and set the tone for the twelve months ahead.
Middle-aged professionals can be terrible dicks when they get together with drink on them.
I suppose the Cock of Foxrock would have to be classed as an extreme sport now, given the medical histories of the two men about to contest it. The old man’s not even supposed to be drinking (which he is) or smoking (which he is), never mind shoving a block of Cheddar into his face (which he’s about to). And Hennessy’s not exactly triathlon material either, with his fur-lined orteries – the only thing about the man that’s even remotely cuddly.
Kennet places a block of Davidstow Reserve in front of my old man and a pint of, I’m presuming, Heineken and a spoon in front of Hennessy.
Then he’s like, ‘M … M … M … Meerks … S … S … S … Set … G … G … G … Go!’
There’s, like, a lot of cheers, or rather roars of support, most of them for my old man, although Hennessy also has his supporters, too, to be fair to the focker.
Game of Throw-ins Page 37
