The Oh My God Delusion

by Ross O'Carroll-Kelly

  I ask him again if he’s nervous and my voice echoes off the walls along the corridor. Again he says no, except this time it’s like he’s taken serious offence to being asked – the little hord man face on him.

  ‘Will ya stop aston him dat,’ his mother goes – and you can see, roysh, one or two of the other parents checking her out, thinking, yeah, won’t be long before she’s dropping the kid off here in her focking pyjamas. ‘Tina,’ I make the mistake of going, ‘would you not be more comfortable waiting in the cor?’ She’s there, ‘Soddy?’ like she’s about to focking glass me. ‘Say dat again.’ ‘Yeah, no, I’m just saying, I actually went to this school? I remember what it was like walking into that very first assembly. I’m just saying, today might be more of a father–son thing …’ Ronan laughs. ‘Ah, will you give it up ourra dat, Rosser. A fadder–son ting! I’m arthur telling you I’m grand …’ ‘Sure he knows most of de kids in he’s class,’ Tina goes. ‘He’s arthur being wit dum in de primary for tree or foe-er years.’ That accent would take the focking face off you. There’s no attempt to even, like, tone it down for the day. I’m there, ‘Yeah, but I’m talking about, like, the older kids? I just remember the hell we used to give the first years – atomic wedgies and all the rest of it.’ It’ll be a brave man who tries to give Ro any kind of wedgie. I catch him already sizing up this other kid, who must be, like, three or four years older than him. ‘There’s nothin here’s gonna put the wind up me,’ he goes. ‘It’s like Tetty and Laddy says to me last night – you’re not gonna be afred of some fooken Tiernan or Tristan, are ya?’ It’s always Terry and Larry – still, now he’s back at school, I’m hoping it turns out to be like Sorcha said – as in a summer thing? I immediately get him off the subject. ‘I have to say, I really envy you, Ro. It’s all ahead of you – oh, take it from someone who’s been there and done it. You actually couldn’t have picked a better time to finish with Blathin either. She’s gonna put the word around Mount Anville – how you treated her and all the rest of it. Means you’re an immediate player. They’re all going to want to be the one to tame you …’ Tina gives me a filthy – presumably for bringing up Bla’s name. He obviously still feels secretly bad. All I’m trying to do, though, is let him know that there’s, like, an exciting new world about to open up to him. ‘Do you want money for Wesley?’ I go, whipping a wad of notes out of my pocket. He looks at Tina. ‘I’m, er, too young,’ he goes. I actually laugh. ‘Hey, we were all too young,’ I go, peeling off a couple of fifties. ‘Crouching Cider, Hidden Naggin.’ Tina snatches the money out of my hand. ‘He’s twelve!’ she goes – er, this from the woman who lets him smoke? She doesn’t give me the fifties back either. ‘In anyhow,’ Ro suddenly goes, ‘I’m not gonna have time for boords. I’m gonna be stuttying – tree, tree and a half hours a night.’ I’m obviously in shock. I’m there, ‘Studying? What’s all this about, Ro?’ ‘He’s arthur deciding,’ Tina goes, ‘he wants to be a solicithor.’ ‘A solicitor? Ro, I thought you hated the law. What was it you shouted at the jury when Buckets of Blood got sent down that first time? You’ve signed yisser own death woddunts?’ He just shrugs. ‘I’m gonna be like that fedda Levy offa The Wire …’ ‘Levy? We’re talking the crooked lawyer dude who’s always getting Stringer and Morlo off?’ Of course there’s no need to even ask who his first clients are going to be. The next thing, roysh, out of the corner of my eye, I cop McGahy, walking with his orms behind his back and his head in the air, like a focking sorgent-major inspecting a parade. I already have my medal hanging outside my shirt? Just to let him know that I still have it and that I’m never giving it back, whatever Fionn, JP and the rest of them decide to do. Tina has to let me down, of course. She’s there, ‘Howiya, Mr Moogahy!’ at the top of her voice. It has to be said, roysh, I’m not ready for what happens next. He practically runs over to where we’re standing and the two of them are suddenly all over each other – I swear to fock – like bezzy focking mates, we’re talking airkisses, the lot. He even goes, ‘It’s Tom, Tina. Call me Tom.’ And she’s there, all, ‘How’s your mudder?’ and that’s when I suddenly cop it – his old dear must have been in, like, Beaumont? ‘On the mend now,’ he goes, ‘thanks to you and the other nurses. I just dread to think what would have happened if you hadn’t got her blood pressure down that night …’ Of course I’m standing there, sort of, like, adjusting the angle of my medal, trying to catch the sun on it and blind the focker. He cracks on not to notice – makes a big point of it, in fact. ‘It’s getting more and more difficult to manage her diabetes,’ he tries to go. Tina smiles at him – she’s letting me down big-time here. ‘Tanks again for de flowers.’ He waves his hand at her. ‘It was nothing. I just wish, as a society, we valued the work you do more.’ I’m actually on the point of focking borfing here. He turns to me then, suddenly all serious, gives me, like, a nod and goes, ‘Hello, Ross,’ trying to be professional, even though he’s obviously bulling that I’ve still got this baby hanging around my neck. Then he looks at Ro. ‘Well,’ he goes, ‘how are you feeling, young man? Excited?’ Ro’s like, ‘Er, yeah, I am a bit.’ ‘Well, we’re excited about having you here. We’ve had nothing but glowing reports from the junior school. In fact, just between ourselves, two teachers from the maths department have already fallen out over who’s going to be teaching you!’ Ro looks at Tina, both of them delighted, while I just throw my shoulders, not so easily impressed by that kind of shit. ‘Come,’ McGahy goes, ‘I’m about to start assembly,’ then he moves off and we follow him, Ronan at his heels like a little focking terrier, me and Tina walking five or six feet behind. ‘You’re focking unbelievable,’ I go to her, out of the corner of my mouth. ‘Saving his mother’s life – where’s your focking loyalty?’ She doesn’t say anything. She’s just speechless. It’s called a guilty conscience. We’re about to take the turn, roysh, into the corridor that leads to the actual assembly hall. The Walk of Legends, it was always called, because they have photos of all the great Castlerock College teams of the past lining the walls on both sides. We’re up there, the famous Dream Team – as is my old man, even though they lost in the first round to, like, Pres Bray of all focking schools. I shout ahead, ‘Hey, Ro, when you turn this corner, the important thing is not to be intimidated …’ So he takes the corner, then we take it a few seconds later. Except it’s me who ends up just stunned into silence. The pictures have all been taken down and the walls have just been, like, whitewashed? I actually stop, dead in my tracks, like some focking madman, running my hand over the bare brickwork, going, ‘Used to be … Used to be … All pictures …’ ‘Gut luck, Ro,’ I hear Tina go and he’s there, ‘Tanks, Ma. See ya later, Rosser …’ but I can’t even get it together to answer him. McGahy opens the door and the noise suddenly hits us like the heat from an oven. Ronan walks in there, chin up, shoulders back, not a care in the basic world. McGahy has a last look back at me. I could be, like, imagining it, but I’m almost sure I can see, like, the trace of a smile on his lips. I’ve heard watching the Magners League described as like having sex while wearing a condom – in other words, you’d be better off staying home and burping your worm. And after already winning the Heineken Cup this year, I admit there is a touch of anti-climax about playing the Newport Gwent Dragons at the RDS on a rainy September Saturday. But what can I say? We’re your die-hord Leinster fans. We’ve followed this team through thick and thin – on and off – for the past ten years. It’s not just an honour to be here – it’s, like, our duty? Even though it’s pretty focking boring. I spend most of the first half shouting kicking advice at Johnny Sexton, none of which he needs unfortunately, then grilling Fionn about his latest supposed date with Erika last night. ‘Ross,’ he goes, suddenly thinking he’s hot shit, ‘I’m trying to watch the rugby here.’ I’m just, like, staring him out of it. The focker honestly doesn’t know how lucky he is. ‘All I’m asking is, where did you take her?’ He just
, like, rolls his eyes and says One Pico. I’m thinking, One Pico? That’s pretty smooth for a goy who spent practically his entire teenage years pulling his plum to Countdown. ‘See,’ I go, ‘that wasn’t hord. It’s actually a nice restaurant. And again – am I allowed to ask? – what did you do afterwards – as in, did anything happen?’ ‘For fock’s sake!’ he practically roars at me – and Fionn pretty much never swears? ‘You don’t have to tell me whether you’d Ant and Decs with the girl. Just answer me this, did she go back to yours even?’ ‘Look, Ross, it really isn’t any of your business.’ ‘Oh, isn’t it? I was the one who focking told you to try and meet someone. I didn’t think it was going to end up being my sister.’ ‘Hey!’ JP goes to us. ‘Why don’t you get oiled up and wrestle?’ which a good few people in the Anglesea Stand seem to find hilarious. ‘Well,’ I go, ‘I’m just trying to make sure the dude stays focused on what’s important. Birds are all very well, but we’ve still got a battle on our hands. I know you two have pretty much already given up. I told you about the pictures, didn’t I?’ ‘Yes,’ Fionn goes, ‘several times.’ ‘Gone from the walls. It’s like we’re being, I don’t know, airbrushed out of history. So just bear that in mind. You as well, JP. Ask yourselves what’s more important – that or your, suddenly, girlfriends.’ JP goes, ‘Hey, Ross, maybe I’ll bring Danuta to the next game – sit her between the two of you …’ Of course that immediately shuts me up. Anyway, it ends up being half-time. I check my phone and it turns out I’ve got, like, a text message from my old dear, which is an actual first. She says thanks for the chat that day in the gaff and blahdy blahdy blah. She’s decided to quit FO’CK on a Budget and make sure to watch her final show next Friday. Doesn’t know what she’s going to cook yet but she’s going to make it one to definitely remember. I’m actually trying to work out what she means when all of a sudden the stadium announcer storts going, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, can I have your attention please …’ It’s weird, roysh, because I instantly know that something not cool is about to go down here? ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he goes, ‘we have a special half-time presentation to make on the pitch today. Ten years ago …’ It’s as soon as he mentions ten years, roysh, that I suddenly turn to look at Fionn, then JP. ‘Newbridge College were beaten in the final of the Leinster Schools Senior Cup competition. Castlerock College, the victors that day, have since been stripped of their title due to revelations regarding the use of performance-enhancing drugs …’ Everyone storts booing, if you can believe that – these are so-called Leinster supporters. ‘So today,’ the announcer goes, ‘we are going to finally correct a sporting injustice by presenting the medals to their rightful winners. Ladies and gentlemen, please be generous in your applause for the Newbridge College team of 1999.’ Out they morch. Right into the middle of the RDS pitch. Blue blazers. Cream chinos. White shirts. We used to say Newbridge were like Tori Spelling – focking talentless, but they dressed well. The crowd storts getting behind them, as in really cheering them. I turn around to Fionn. I’m like, ‘What the fock?’ For once, he doesn’t seem to have an answer. I look down. Mocky – we’re talking Mocky – is being presented with the cup. The only way to describe how I’m suddenly feeling is to say it feels like I’ve died inside. I watch him accept it from … fock, it’s Mary actual McAleese, the same woman who presented it to me. I just shake my head. She’s changed her focking tune. ‘Ladies and gentleman,’ the announcer goes, ‘the 1999 Leinster Schools Senior Cup champions – Newbridge College!’ Mocky takes the cup in both hands, then just thrusts it up to the sky and practically the whole RDS goes ballistic. Fionn and JP are both unbelievably quiet. JP, being honest, looks actually ill, obviously suddenly regretting being all Weekend at Bernie’s that night in my gaff. The players stort doing, like, a lap of honour with the cup. A few of them are just, like, staring at their medals, almost studying them, obviously thinking, ‘Devil a lie but my heart is pounding with joy this very night! I’m as happy as if I’d been presented with a cow!’ It’s when I see one of them suddenly kiss his – in exactly the same way that I kissed mine a million times before – that I end up totally losing it. It’s literally like watching a bird you’re still in love with swapping spits with some dude who isn’t even in your league. I fly into a sudden rage. I throw my leg over Fionn and hop into the centre aisle, then stort running down the steps towards the pitch. ‘Ross!’ the two goys are going, ‘don’t do it,’ but I just keep going. One or two stewards make a grab for me but I ride the tackles – unbelievably well, a neutral would have to say – and the next thing I know I’m suddenly pitchside, with the Newbridge players parading right in front of me, loving the attention, loving themselves, so I end up letting this sudden roar out of me, giving them everything I’ve pretty much got. ‘You Cooley-waltzing, donkey-punching, Frances Black-loving muck-savages!’ The entire stadium, it’s fair to say, is suddenly stunned into silence. If it’s true that places like Kilkenny and Carlow are in Leinster, I suppose I’m touching a fair few bases with a line like that. The stewards suddenly catch up with me, grabbing me and pinning both my orms behind my back. They’re just about to haul me off, roysh, when one of the players – I’m pretty sure he was their number eight – goes, ‘The Lord between us and harm! Would you look who it is!’ ‘You’re making basic tits of yourselves,’ I scream at him. ‘Everyone knows who the real 1999 Leinster Schools Senior Cup champions are!’ The dude has the actual balls to laugh in my face. ‘My word but you’re a polished trickster! To lay eyes on you, you’d take the oath there wasn’t a crooked bone in your body! But you were on the drugs – sha, ’tis belled throughout the country. You put the roguery across on us all. And we owe you no discourse.’ I struggle against the stewards’ grip, going, ‘Focking Kildare!’ It’s then, roysh, that Mocky emerges from the little huddle of players. Seeing him hold the trophy that I worked so hord to lift suddenly in his dirty farm hands makes me mad enough to pretty much kill. I’m there, ‘You give me that actual trophy! If these two goons weren’t holding me back, you could consider yourself already decked?’ Mocky’s there, ‘Quit your tip-of-the-reel and your hullabaloo!’ obviously loving it. ‘I can’t hear my ears!’ I’m there, ‘Hey, we hammered you on the day – beat you like a cross-eyed stepkid. I’ve got a gold medal still hanging around my neck to prove it.’ ‘The dickens sweep you,’ he goes, ‘your mittle and goat’s wool would make good stockings!’ Everyone in the crowd laughs, even though I haven’t a clue what he’s talking about. ‘Small blame to you,’ someone even shouts at Mocky. ‘’Tis only fair, the cup is yours. ’Tis fairer than Niamh the Comely at the death of Talc Mac Trone! And the curse of Mushera Mountain down on top of that other fella!’ It’s true – the Leinster crowd is definitely changing. Mocky’s there, ‘You heard the man. We worked for it – we ate no easy bread. But ye thought all we were good for was cutting furze on the brow of Coum. Well, ’tis ours now – and ye’ll be lighter for the road without it!’ ‘You focking bogger!’ ‘Oh, you’re a man with curses to burn! And you’re none too thankful for your bargain now! But you’d be as well getting reconciled to it!’ ‘You’re focking loving this.’ ‘Sha, ’tis true. I’ve never had a happier day since I was christened Seamaisin Ruadh. And I wouldn’t prefer a present of the whole parish this particular night! Even better that it’s put a scowl on you. I’ll not give you a pennorth of sympathy. I don’t care if you’re found wandering demented around Baile an Fheirtéaraigh!’ He goes to, like, walk away then. ‘You give me that actual trophy!’ I end up going, then two or three more stewards have to come and help restrain me, because I end up totally losing it, kicking and thrashing and threatening all sorts. This – honestly – chubamungous focker with a huge rack and a head like Shrek steps forward then. ‘By the heavens but you’ve notions,’ he goes, in a real threatening way. ‘Look at you, you’re blue-moulded for the want of a baiting!’ ‘Knock his two eyes into one!’ one of the other players s
houts. Then someone else goes, ‘He’ll not leave this spot tonight without the taste of blood on his teeth!’ See, they’re all very brave when I’m being held back. He’s getting ready, roysh, to throw a dig at me, when all of a sudden I hear a voice go, ‘You’re going to have to go through me first.’ It’s Fionn. I can’t tell you how focking humiliating it is to have him riding to my rescue but I appreciate the back-up anyway. ‘And me,’ I hear another voice go. JP. I’m on the point of being focking milled here and they’re ready to be milled with me. That’s friendship. I could also say that’s rugby. The focker suddenly thinks better of it. Mocky actually puts his hand on the dude’s chest and goes, ‘Let’s not stand here swapping every second angry word with him. Let him cool the skin he heated in. For this is the best day we ever stood in the prime of our manhood. Tonight, I may tell you, there’ll be capering and dancing and music. I own to God, we’ll be going clean out of our minds with the singing. Let them cut their own sticks now – the whole clutch of them …’ Then off they walk, laughing and lepping and whatever else it is that people from Kildare do, while the three of us are dragged outside and literally, I don’t know, deposited out on to Anglesea Road. Helen answers the door. She gives me what would have to be described as a sympathetic smile, then says she heard what happened at the RDS. She’s sorry. ‘Thanks,’ I go. ‘Again, no phone call from him, though.’ She’s like, ‘Ross, don’t just run in there shouting at him. Promise me you’ll listen to what he has to say, will you?’ All these people are just, like, suckers for his whole routine. I’m there, ‘Where is he – the study?’ She nods. ‘Hennessy’s with him.’ ‘Are they hammered?’ ‘They played nine holes this morning.’ I just shake my head. I’m serious, she could do, like, way, way better. But I head for the study, roysh, fully intending to hear the tosser out, as Helen suggested, but it’s as I’m pushing the door that I hear a snatch of conversation that pulls me up short. It’s actually some shit Hennessy says, about how he phoned Regina last night and told her the money would be in her account by eleven o’clock Monday morning. ‘Ross!’ the old man goes when he sees me standing at the door, cracking on to be delighted, out of obvious guilt more than anything else. I’m there, ‘No, no, please continue.’ He waves his hand at me. ‘Just some bit of business,’ he tries to go. ‘Not important.’ Now I might be as thick as a focking brick on Batch, but I immediately know what’s going down here. ‘Regina?’ I go. ‘You wouldn’t happen to be talking about Regina Rathfriland would you? As in, wife of Toddy?’ Neither of them answers, which I take as a yes. I’m there, ‘So how much?’ ‘What are you talking about?’ the old man goes, trying to take advantage of my legendary slowness off the mork. I end up just roaring at him. ‘How much did you pay her to drop Erika’s name from the basically divorce proceedings?’ The old man looks at Hennessy and Hennessy sort of, like, nods. The game is up and he knows it. ‘One point seven million,’ the old man goes. At first, roysh, I think I must have heard him wrong. ‘Sorry, for a second there, I thought you said …’ ‘One point seven million, Ross.’ ‘You’re pulling my focking wire.’ ‘No. Unfortuately, I’m not. See, the injunction was just a temporary one. It was going to get out. Regina was going to see to that. Unless, of course, she could be persuaded – by fair means or foul – to drop poor Erika’s name from the proceedings altogether …’ ‘So you focking paid her one point seven million snots?’ ‘I just didn’t want to see her life ruined, Ross. Which it undoubtedly would have been had it hit the papers.’ That’s when I really end up losing it? ‘Her life?’ I go. ‘What about mine? You heard what happened at the match last night?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘But you don’t give two focks – you’ve already told me that.’ ‘I care that you’re upset – of course I do.’ ‘No, you don’t. Because you’re too busy these days with all this new shit you’ve got going on. You’ve even stopped calling me Kicker – have you even thought about that?’ ‘Well, I thought it rather annoyed you,’ he tries to go. ‘Focking everything about you annoys me! But it was still nice to get the recognition every so often. I mean, you used to say the real scandal in this country that needed investigating was the fact that I was never called up to the Ireland rugby squad. You even asked a question from the audience about it on Questions and Answers …’ ‘The night they were debating the Hepatitis C business. I haven’t forgotten.’ ‘Haven’t you? Well, you could have fooled me. Because while you’ve been throwing your money around supporting Erika, you haven’t supported me one little bit. Telling me to move on and find something new. It’s like you’re almost glad it happened?’ Something happens to his face then, which I’m definitely not imagining. It’s, like, a sudden change of expression, like he’s on the point of saying something, though he’s still not sure whether he should or not. ‘Whoa!’ I go. ‘This is a turn-up. You are glad. Come on, out with it!’ He looks at Hennessy. ‘Wouldn’t mind giving us a moment, would you, old chap?’ ‘Charlie,’ he goes on his way out of the room, ‘we been friends a long, long time. But I’ve got to tell you this. I want to beat that boy’s eyes into the back of his head.’ I just give him the finger. Then off he focks. ‘Of course I’m not glad,’ the old man goes. He says it with a bit of a focking tone as well. ‘I’m ashamed!’ I’m stunned into almost silence. ‘Ashamed? Ashamed of me, you mean?’ ‘No, Ross, ashamed of me …’ I’m thinking, okay, this I’m prepared to hear. ‘Continue.’ He takes, like, a deep breath. ‘Ross, I know I haven’t been much of a father …’ ‘Agreed.’ ‘But then my father wasn’t much of one either. What I mean is, I didn’t have a very good role model when it came to, inverted commas, parenting …’ ‘Cue the focking violins.’ ‘It seems I disappointed him in everything I did. Well, I’ve told you this before. When you were born, I remember saying, this little chap is going to make me proud as I failed to make my father proud! What a crazy thing to even think …’ ‘Sorry, am I being really stupid here? What the fock are you talking about?’ ‘I’m talking about living our dreams vicariously through our children. Except it was worse in my case, because it wasn’t even my dream I had you living out – it was my father’s …’ ‘That’s not true.’ ‘It is, Ross. Sadly, it is. I put pressure on you from the first moment I put that bloody Gilbert in your hands. Telling you all those famous stories about Campbell and Slats and, oh, the whole bloody lot of them – asking you to measure up …’ I’m suddenly, I don’t know, confused? ‘I’m sorry to disappoint you,’ I go, ‘but it had fock-all to do with you. I played rugby because it was the one thing in life that I was actually amazing at.’ ‘No,’ he goes, ‘I sent you to a school where I knew you’d do nothing but eat, drink and sleep it. Once old Denis got a hold of you, I knew you didn’t stand a chance. Did I know he was giving you drugs? No. Would I have objected had I known? As I said to Helen, probably not …’ He’s on the point of actual tears. He nearly has me nearly feeling sorry for him, the sap. ‘I was blinded by it, Ross. I expect other parents felt the same. I wanted that medal, whatever the cost. But now I’m looking at you, having to pay that cost. And that’s why I’m ashamed, Ross. That’s why I think about that piece of metal and I say good riddance to it, let’s just move on with our lives …’ ‘Good riddance? You mean, just let some random rabbit-lamper have it?’ ‘I’m not saying it’s right, Ross …’ ‘Of course it’s not focking right. Jesus, when I think of Mocky – you remember how he bottled it on the big day – walking up and down the main street of whatever focking town he’s from with that medal around his neck, showing it off at the local dance, I get an actual pain in my chest …’ He doesn’t say anything for, like, ten seconds. Then he goes, ‘Okay,’ and he nods, like he’s decided on some, I don’t know, course of action? I’m there, ‘What do you mean, okay?’ ‘If you really want to fight this thing …’ ‘Er, I do?’ ‘Okay, well, according to your godfather – who, as we know, is an expert in these matters – you do have some legal recourse �
�’ ‘Okay, break that down for me – words I can understand.’ ‘Hennessy says you’re entitled to a hearing under the Constitution.’ ‘The what?’ ‘Have you ever heard of the Constitution of Ireland?’ ‘No, but move on …’ ‘Well, according to our learned friend, irrespective of the school’s wish to forfeit the match after the fact, you’re still entitled to present a defence to an independent jury before any sentence is pronounced on you. Oh, it’s enshrined, by all accounts.’ ‘So what happens now?’ ‘Well, presumably, if so instructed, Hennessy will go and seek interlocutory relief.’ ‘That sounds filthy.’ ‘Oh, it’s not filthy, Ross. Not at all. It’s another of his world-famous injunctions – preventing Newbridge College from calling themselves Leinster Schools Senior Cup champions until after you’ve put your case.’ I actually punch the air. I’m like, ‘Yes!’ and then I go, ‘See, this is you being a proper father again.’ He sort of, like, smiles. ‘I shall instruct our friend accordingly. And you might do one thing for me, Ross …’ I can’t actually believe him. ‘Er, I don’t think you’re in any position to ask for favours …’ ‘Just hear me out. Will you come and work for Shred Focking Everything!?’ I laugh – no even choice. ‘Please,’ he goes. ‘Just two weeks. If you don’t like it, well, I’ll never bring it up again.’ Seven o’clock on Sunday night and there’s, like, another porty in full swing next door. Some mate of Terry and Larry’s called Shavo got out of prison relatively recently and he’s moved into one of the vacants on the third floor. I know this because I met him in the lift, a Calor Kosangas bottle in either hand. Naturally, roysh, I presumed he had a couple of Supersers, which are still very popular among the working classes. But when he copped me looking at them, he went, ‘For fooken protection, so thee are,’ and then, when I suddenly tried to look away, he went, ‘Fooken law come for me again, these two are goin over the bleaten balcony, so thee are!’ Another great addition to the neighbourhood. Anyway, Sunday night’s porty seems to have been thrown in his honour, given the number of times I hear people congratulating him on keeping his mouth shut. I’m just sitting there, doing a bit of work on the old laptop. All right, that’s actual horseshit. In fact, I’m on, like, YouTube, watching chav women fighting in the street – as you do when you’re bored. That’s when my phone all of a sudden rings. It turns out to be, like, Christian. ‘May the Force be with you!’ I instantly go. ‘How are things in Vegas?’ But Christian says fock-all back. He might be on the other side of the, I don’t know, world, but there is no shitting him. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ he just goes. I’m there, ‘Who told you?’ ‘I got the letter from the school,’ he goes. ‘My old pair forward all my post to me …’ I hit pause on a clip of these two Geordie birds slapping the fock out of each other on a hen night. ‘You should have told me,’ he just goes. I’m there, ‘Dude, I just figured you’d enough on your plate, with, like, the baby and shit? How is little Ross anyway?’ ‘He’s fine. Getting huge.’ ‘That’s good. Well, there was that – plus the fact that … ah, I don’t know …’ ‘What?’ ‘It just something Simon said – and he’s possibly right. I mean, it’s all my fault, isn’t it?’ ‘Don’t even think like that.’ ‘But I do, Dude. I mean, I was the one who was on drugs – even though it wasn’t, like, drugs drugs? In a weird way, I feel like I’ve let you all down …’ ‘Hey, we wouldn’t have these medals if it wasn’t for you.’ ‘Okay, I’ll allow you that one. Look, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I just figured, I don’t know, if I could stop you finding out about it, I could maybe buy myself some time to make this shit right. We could all end up hanging on to our medals and you need never have known how close we came to actually losing them.’ ‘Ross,’ he just goes, really firmly this time? ‘What did we always used to say? We’re stronger together.’ It’s an amazing thing to suddenly hear. I’m there, ‘I haven’t forgotten.’ ‘Haven’t you? Well, you could have fooled me.’ ‘I just thought …’ ‘Ross, we won those medals as a team. And, if it comes to it, we’ll lose them as a team. How are Fionn and JP taking it? Not well, I presume.’ ‘You’d presume wrong, then. I think they’re actually resigned to it.’ ‘What?’ ‘Fionn’s still working for McGahy.’ ‘He hasn’t quit?’ ‘No. Look, in fairness to them, they did seem in pretty much shock when Newbridge were presented with the trophy.’ ‘Newbridge were presented with the trophy?’ ‘At half-time in the Newport Dragons match. But, deep down, I think they’re like, fock it, whatever. See, they’re both loved up at the moment. JP’s with some Russian bird – focking lunatic, hates me, by the way. And Fionn’s with …’ ‘Who?’ I don’t know why I don’t tell him? Maybe because I know it’s not going anywhere. ‘Ah, just someone. Suffice it to say, their priorities seem to have changed. I mean, I was the only one who tried to get on the pitch to deck Mocky …’ ‘Mocky! That’s a name from the past. He had a lashback.’ ‘He still focking has it.’ ‘Jesus. The idea of him having a Leinster Schools Senior Cup medal.’ ‘Well, rest easy, my friend, because he’s not going to have one for much longer – you don’t have to worry on that score.’ He sounds delighted to hear it. ‘Are you saying there’s a plan of action?’ ‘Oh, you better believe there’s a plan of action!’ He laughs then, seriously relieved. ‘I had a feeling your old man wouldn’t sit idly by and just let it happen.’ I’m pretty offended by that, it has to be said. ‘Why do people always presume it’s him?’ I go. ‘Er, maybe it’s down to me this time.’ ‘I’m sorry, Ross.’ ‘Look, it’s cool, Christian – I just hate when people assume. Anyway, as it happens, it is down to my old man – he’s sending Hennessy into the High Court tomorrow to get, like, an injunction.’ ‘This sounds very much to me like fighting talk.’ ‘It’s very much fighting talk.’ ‘Do you mind me saying, you suddenly sound like the old Ross O’Carroll-Kelly – from, like, ten years ago?’ That immediately stirs something in me. I’m not being crude here but I’ve suddenly got half a focking teacake in my chinos – and there’s nobody here. ‘Christian, I’m not blowing smoke up your hole,’ I turn around and go, ‘but the way you’re talking there is giving me an unbelievable urge to, well, definitely fight this thing every inch of the way.’ He’s there, ‘Well, if anyone can, you can.’ And I’m like, ‘Dude, you better believe it.’ ‘You know,’ the old man goes, ‘I’m almost certain it was me who once famously said, “In business, as in life, keep three things with you always – patience, courage and good friends – and you’ll never know the cold of a recession.” And that’s a lesson, Ross, that everyone would do well to heed in these, inverted commas, changed times – from your senior executives at the top of the tree, all the way down to your lowly commercial property lawyer.’ I cast the old mince pies skyward. I can’t believe it’s come to this – sitting in a white Gloria Este with the old man, facing into a day of, believe it or not, work. I might as well have said yes to JP’s old man’s offer. I’m just about to tell him that I’ve changed my mind when he suddenly hands me what turns out to be a business cord. In big red letters, it’s got, like, the name of the company on it – obviously SHRED FOCKING EVERYTHING! – then underneath, in black type, it’s like, Ross O’Carroll-Kelly – Managing Partner, and even though every muscle in my body is screaming at me to go back to bed and watch The Morning Show with Sybil and Martin, it’s actually the job title that appeals to that little bit of – I suppose you’d have to say – ego in me? ‘I do like this,’ I go, waving it at him, so he hands me the rest – a big focking brick of about five hundred of them and I’m staring at them, thinking, I can’t focking wait to stort flooding the likes of Krystle and Residence with these – let the birds out there know that, just because the country’s focked, it doesn’t mean we’re all eating the Bentley’s early bird and using public focking transport. ‘Before we enter the, inverted commas, breach,’ he goes, ‘I thought I might outline for you your areas of responsibility.’ Of course that brings me back to earth with a bump. ‘Respon
sibility?’ I go, my hand instantly reaching for the handle of the door. ‘There’s always a focking catch with you, isn’t there?’ He has, like, a quick look at his watch. ‘Eleven o’clock. Hennessy will be in court about now.’ Subtle as a kick in the knackers. I let go of the handle. ‘Now, don’t go worrying your head,’ he tries to go. ‘When I say responsibility, I only mean overseeing the overall business practice of the company, supervising in the areas of marketing and business development …’ ‘Something tells me that a giant neon and is about to light up this conversation.’ ‘And, well, yes, collecting sacks of documents from offices and feeding them into the shredding machine in the back of the van there …’ I’m there, ‘Manual focking labour? Me? Erika’s right – you have been working too hord.’ ‘Just two weeks,’ he goes and there’s nothing I can do, of course, except shake my head and tell him he has balls like focking churchbells. He changes the subject then, asks me how Ronan’s getting on in his new school. I tell him the first couple of weeks seemed to go fine, though I’d much prefer if he was going to a place that still played actual rugby. ‘Either way,’ I go, ‘once he’s out of the clutches of those two next door …’ He smiles at me, then he delivers this unbelievable compliment. ‘You know, I wish I’d been more like you as a father …’ It’s, like, a major boost for the old confidence, even coming from him. I’m there, ‘Do you actually mean that?’ ‘Well, naturally I mean it. Because it’s true. I mean, look at you. You’re never done worrying about that little chap of yours. And as for Honor – well, I know the reason you ended up living where you do was to keep a roof over her head …’ I could mention the whole supposed UCD dormitory angle to the story, though I don’t, probably because I’m enjoying him bulling me up for a change? ‘I look at you when you’re around your children,’ he goes, ‘and I think, what kind of a bloody miracle is that? What, with the father he had?’ I’m there, ‘You weren’t that bad,’ probably getting carried away by the moment. ‘It’s very kind of you to say so,’ he goes, ‘but we both know that’s a lie. To you and Erika, I was a colossal failure. I’m just happy that you won’t end up like me – a silly old man trying to live with his regrets …’ He has me all of a sudden feeling sorry for him. ‘Dude,’ I end up going, ‘the past is the past.’ He’s like, ‘You know, Helen’s taught me that, in her kind, patient way. The past is yesterday’s snow, her mother used to say. One thing I can still do is to make sure my children are provided for. That’s the reason I started Cheeses Merrion Joseph. I’m hoping Erika will take over when Helen and I retire …’ I laugh. ‘Er, I think you’re going to have some focking job persuading her.’ He even laughs then. Something suddenly occurs to me. ‘Hang on a minute – are you saying this van is my focking inheritance?’ ‘Well, it won’t always be just a van, if this country’s need to purge its guilty conscience is even half what I suspect it is. It’ll be a fleet of vans, operating out of a great big shining corporate headquarters, with the words O’CARROLL-KELLY & SON over the door.’ I’m there, ‘Of course you have to get your name in there first, don’t you?’ ‘No,’ he just goes, ‘you’re O’Carroll-Kelly, Ross. And Ronan is the Son.’ The focker knows exactly what strings to pull. I don’t say anything for ages. I actually can’t? ‘Are you crying?’ he eventually goes. I tell him let’s just do this focking thing – stort the engine, which he does, then we’re off to our first pick-up of the day, which he says is a bank. I could tell you which bank except it’s supposed to be, like, a confidential shredding service? ‘My brains and your brains,’ the old man goes, as we pull up outside. I’m staring at my business cord again when I suddenly realize something. ‘Is portner not spelt with an o?’ He doesn’t answer – probably too busy thinking, this goy is going to keep me on my serious toes. This is cosy. This is very focking cosy. I’m talking about the four of them being out for dinner, we’re talking Fionn and Erika, we’re talking JP and that focking mentalist of his, all of them in Mint – probably among the last few to eat here, because the word is that it’s also focked, Michelin stor or not. ‘This is focking cosy,’ I go. They all look up from their langoustines and whatever else – not a bit guilty, by the way. ‘What are you doing here?’ Erika even goes. I’m there, looking around me, going, ‘They don’t do tables for six, no?’ letting them know, in no uncertain terms, how I feel about being left out of their exclusive little club. Fionn goes, ‘Who would you have brought, Ross?’ and I’m thinking, the focking cheek of him – years without his Nat King Cole and now he suddenly thinks he’s me. I don’t take the bait, though. I just wave my iPhone at him and go, ‘Any one of a thousand, my friend. Any one of a thousand.’ Danuta, by the way, is just glowering at me, like even the idea of me makes her angry? ‘Zees fugging eediot again,’ she goes, not even under her breath, which is the reason I decide to, like, cut it short here. ‘Okay,’ I go, ‘the reason I’m here is just to tell you that Hennessy got the injunction …’ The two goys just nod. I might as well have told them that I had an incredible shit in the toilet on my way in here. Which I did, by the way. I’m there, ‘Er, preventing the Leinster Branch from declaring Newbridge College champions until after I’ve been formally chorged and offered the opportunity to speak in my own defence?’ They both nod again – at least trying to seem more enthusiastic this time? ‘And I’m going to do that, don’t you worry. Get ready for the trial of the focking century, goys.’ I hear Danuta sort of, like, tutting loudly, so I decide to, like, speed shit up. ‘One last thing I probably should tell you – more good news – is that Christian went into the Wikipedia entry for the Leinster Schools Senior Cup and stuck us back in as the 1999 champions, with, like, an asterisk beside it, then underneath it’s just like, pending a disciplinary hearing. In other words, bring it on, baby! Bring it focking on!’ ‘When is the, er, date for the hearing?’ is all JP can think to say. ‘They said they’d be in touch,’ I go, ‘over the next, like, week or so? Sorry, goys, pordon me for saying it, but I thought it’d be, like, high-fives all round here tonight.’ I look at Fionn. I actually stare him out of it because he seems to have something he wants to say. ‘Ross,’ he goes, ‘you’ve already admitted your guilt, in that stupid book you did.’ ‘Your point being?’ ‘My point being – they’re going to give you your hearing, you’re going to admit what you did and then we’re going to be stripped of our medals anyway. Does it not just seem like a colossal waste of energy to you?’ ‘And money,’ Erika suddenly pipes up. One point seven million yoyos for a fling with Toddy Rathfriland – er, she can afford to talk? ‘Why don’t you giff zees fugging medal back?’ it’s Danuta who suddenly goes. ‘Zees ees problem wiz people now. Zey want to keep what ees not zares any more. Like woman today – she ees sprawled on bonnet of Porsche Cayenne, saying, let me keep, let me keep! I say, no, ees not yours – ees finance company’s. Now you poot Rimmel foundation on windscreen, fugging beetch …’ I should know better than to answer her back. But she wasn’t there to see the mess we made of Newbridge College that day, which means she has no right to say this medal doesn’t belong to me. ‘Don’t worry, I know what’s eating you,’ I go. ‘You’re just bulling because it was the same drugs that your man Heil Hitler was on when he invaded your actual country?’ Her mouth just drops open. She turns to JP, roysh, wondering has she, like, misunderstood. He just goes, ‘Ross, I’m about to translate what you just said for Danuta,’ and then he nods in the direction of the door. ‘Why don’t you get a good head start?’ My first full week of work turned out to be not half as bad as I thought it was going to be? He’s a focking dope – you’ll get no orguments from me on that score – but, like I’ve often said, he can actually be all right when he doesn’t try too hord. The other thing is – and I can’t believe I’m even thinking these words – but there ended up being something weirdly satisfying about doing an honest week’s work – if you can call destroying documents before the Fraud Squad get their hands on them honest. �
��God’s work,’ the old man called it as we were getting ready to break for lunch on Friday. He put his hand on my shoulder, picked up a random bank statement that I was about to feed into the machine and gave it the quick left to right. ‘If people knew the half of this, they’d be rioting in the bloody streets …’ He shook his head. ‘As I said at my trial, this is what your economic miracle was built on. Greed, avarice and corruption. And they thought it was hilarious, do you remember that?’ I went, ‘You did make a tit of yourself, though.’ He even laughed. ‘Yes, I expect I did …’ Then he said I could knock off early. The weird thing was, roysh, I didn’t even want to? But we’d already done our final collection of the week. So anyway, roysh, I’m on the Stillorgan dualler, on my way out of town, when I suddenly remember that today is the last ever episode of FO’CK Cooking and that the old dear said she was going to make it one to remember. I check the time and I realize it’s about to stort. There’s no way I’d make it out to Ticknock in time, so I decide to swing into, like, RTÉ itself to watch it in reception. I’m thinking, I might even ask that Shanna Moakler one for her digits – about time she got a shot at the title. When I walk through the revolving door, I immediately notice that she’s dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. I’m like, ‘Hey, what’s the story?’ because I still don’t know her name. She’s there, ‘Oh, we’re all a bit teary in here today. Chico passed away this morning.’ ‘Who?’ ‘Do you watch Fair City?’ I laugh. ‘Er, I don’t need to. I can just stick my focking ear up against the wall.’ Except I say it in, like, a flirty way? ‘Well,’ she goes, ‘Chico was Bela Doyle’s cat. Ah, he was just a stray who used to hang around the lot. Then they decided to write him into the show. He was only in it for six or seven episodes. They said he’d heartworm.’ I haven’t a bog what that is but it sounds focking revolting. ‘That’s, er, sad,’ I go, trying to soften her up. You’ve got to make sure to give them plenty of sympathy. That’s a fact. ‘God, I focking love animals,’ I go. She nods and dabs at her eyes again. She’s there, ‘They’re having a wake for him in McCoys.’ ‘Well, I’ll certainly pop in – pay my respects and blah blah blah.’ ‘Oh, that’s nice.’ ‘Well, it’s the least I can do. And, by the way, if you fancy grabbing a drink after you knock off, maybe talk about the whole thing – the cat being dead and blah blah blah – I can cancel my plans for tonight …’ She smiles at me. She’s actually on the point of saying yes, roysh, when the reception area is suddenly filled with these angry voices. I turn around, roysh, and all these people are suddenly coming through the revolving door, shouting at the same time. They’re dressed like the queue for the 77 bus and it doesn’t take me long to work out that it’s the cast of Fair City. ‘He’s gone!’ I hear one of the women shout in what I have to say is a surprisingly posh accent. It’s more like, ‘He’s gawn!’ and then I remember hearing somewhere that the entire cast was made up of Southsiders pretending to be skobies? ‘He’s gawn! He’s simply gawn!’ Of course the obvious question is, ‘Who the fock?’ ‘Chico!’ she goes. ‘We had him laid out – beautifully! – in the pub. Someone’s taken him!’ It’s weird, roysh, but it’s another of those moments when you don’t know but at the same time you somehow do? I sort of, like, instinctively turn to the huge TV they have in the waiting area. The old dear’s face is filling the screen, smiling away, which she hasn’t done for weeks on the show. Maybe that’s why everyone’s attention is suddenly drawn to it. ‘Now,’ she goes, ‘recently, I showed you how to prepare a vaguely edible three-course meal from the scraps that most of us discard every day as rubbish. Today, I’ll be showing you how to cook a beautiful Morrocan-style tagine – and don’t fret, those of you out there who are watching every cent right now, because it’s not only very simple but also very, very cheap to make. ‘Now, many of us are familiar with the heartache and sadness that come from losing a family pet …’ I’m thinking, no way – no focking way! ‘Some of us – myself included – have buried faithful old dogs in the back garden, marking the spot with a stone that will serve as a permanent reminder of a loving and fulfilling relationship. However, in the current economic climate, with money scarce, we can no longer afford to ignore the fact that our once-loved pets, even after death, still contain good meat …’ The camera pans back. It feels like I’m dreaming but she’s holding – I swear to fock! – a dead cat by the tail. And I could be wrong but that looks very much to me like a Spanish onion shoved into its dead mouth. There’s all of a sudden, like, screams from the Fair City cast – and they’re definitely not acting. ‘It’s Chico!’ one or two are going. Others are just there, ‘Nooo!’ Not only that, roysh, but you can hear, like, screaming coming from the floors above us as well. ‘What … what’s she doing?’ Shanna Moakler goes. ‘I’m pretty sure she said a Morrocan-style tagine,’ I go, equally in shock. ‘After the break,’ the old dear continues, ‘I’m going to show you how to bring a bit of post-mortem cheer to the house by turning a once-loved pet into a delicious nomadic stew. All you need for this is an onion, two carrots, a turnip, a dead cat and a country that thinks that an economic downturn is an excuse for us all to return to the Middle Ages.’ Someone must pull the plug on her then, roysh, because the screen goes blank, then up comes a message saying there’s been, like, a breakdown in transmission, which is obvious horseshit. I look around me. Everyone looks like they’ve been pulled from the focking North Sea. They’re all, like, hugging each other and shivering and crying. I look at Shanna Moakler. She’s, like, totally distraught. It’s definitely not the time to bring it up. But I do. ‘Again, we can talk about all of this over that drink …’ Except she just stares straight through me. The next thing, the doors into the studio open and the old dear breezes through reception, as if nothing ever happened, going, ‘Oh, hello, Ross, dorling! Shall we get a late lunch?’ This woman – she’s a real Yummy Mummy If She Wasn’t So Tonney – she hands me a sack of, like, documents and you’d honestly swear she was handing me her focking first-born. ‘You’ll look after it, won’t you?’ she goes. ‘I can trust you …’ I end up having to pretty much wrestle it from her. I’m there, ‘Look, I’ll pour it into the shredder right now,’ and she finally lets go. She goes, ‘There’s things in there … My husband and I would go to prison.’ This is, like, Killiney we’re talking, so they probably wouldn’t, although the old man was right about a lot of people having a lot of shit to suddenly hide. I shred it anyway, while he drives on to the next pick-up. When we stop again, I hop out. We’re porked on, like, Castle Street in Dalkey. The old man, I notice, is talking to someone through the driver’s window. It turns out to be Sorcha – she’s pushing Honor in the stroller. ‘Hello!’ she goes when she sees me. You’d never think divorce was even on the cords. ‘Very smart,’ she goes, checking out my yellow jumpsuit. ‘Shreeed,’ Honor goes, trying to read the lettering on it, ‘fff … fffock …’ and what can me, Sorcha and the old man do other than laugh? ‘You’ll know that word soon enough,’ Sorcha goes to her, ‘if you spend enough time around your daddy.’ Sorcha looks unbelievable, I don’t know if I mentioned. ‘I was just saying,’ the old man goes to me, ‘that you haven’t had a break this afternoon …’ Then Sorcha smiles at me. ‘Do you fancy a coffee?’ It’s like – er, does Pinocchio have a hickory dick? So we end up hitting the new Buckys, just me and her and Honor. ‘Do you mind me saying,’ I go, as she eats the froth off her skinny cappuccino, ‘that this is the best I’ve seen you looking for a long, long time?’ She loves that I’ve said it. She’s like, ‘Thanks, Ross. I’m finished with my communty service next week, you know?’ I’m there, ‘Cool,’ and then I ask her, what then? She says she still has no idea, except she sounds sort of, like, happy about that. ‘I’m going to spend some time with my daughter,’ she goes, ‘and just be, if that makes any sense.’ I tell her it makes perfect sense – she means just sit on her hole for a few months. She laughs. It’s the jumpsuit again. She obviously can�
��t believe I’m back working for a living. ‘It’s actually been pretty cool,’ I go, ‘even though it was originally supposed to be only for, like, a week or two? See, the old man’s actually all right, deep down. Did I tell you he’s backing me now on the whole medal front? We managed to get an injunction.’ ‘That’s good. Look, I know how much it still means to you.’ ‘Big-time. Plus, I don’t know, he knows loads of shit, the old man. I possibly should listen to him the odd time. He’s putting this whole recession thing into definite perspective for me. He says we all got, I don’t know, lazy and complacent. No offence, by the way …’ ‘No, he’s right, Ross – certainly in the case of my shop. I mean, I grew up knowing nothing but prosperity. I just didn’t have the skills-set to cope with this changed world we’ve all woken up to. You heard Nu Blue Eriu’s gone, did you?’ ‘I certainly heard it was in trouble …’ ‘Everything’s in trouble. That’s what my dad said to me. He was like, “Sorcha, you haven’t failed – your country has failed you!” Which was so an amazing thing to hear.’ I tell her I can only imagine. I give Honor a sip of her organic apple juice. ‘Yeah, no,’ I go, ‘I don’t see this as being, like, a long-term thing for me – as in, work? What I’ll probably do is carry on helping the old man build the business up, then flog it for, like, millions – hopefully get out of that squatter camp I’m living in.’ She’s there, ‘I still feel bad about that. I mean, I know you did it for us.’ Except I’m like, ‘Hey, I can’t think of a better reason for doing it,’ and the thing is, roysh, I actually mean it. ‘By the way, I’m earning pretty all right money doing this – I can afford to up your, er … maintenance?’ I nearly called it vagimoney – force of habit. ‘What you give me is enough,’ she goes, ‘despite what my dad says.’ I don’t argue with her. I’ll hit the old Hilary tomorrow and change, like, the standing order. There’s like, a lull in the conversation then. ‘Did you hear about my old dear trying to cook the Fair City cat,’ I go, for the want of something more interesting to say. She smiles at me, except sadly. ‘Who am I to judge your mum?’ she goes. ‘I cracked under the pressure as well. Like I said, no one could have seen this thing coming.’ ‘I suppose.’ ‘The only thing I would say is that Honor saw it. She ended up having terrible nightmares. I just couldn’t get her settled.’ I laugh. ‘Speaking of settling,’ I go, ‘Erika and Fionn seem to be getting on very well.’ She’s there, ‘Ross!’ even though I know she secretly considers it a cracking line. ‘They’re actually really, really happy.’ ‘She couldn’t be. She’s into, like, rich and powerful men. Fionn hordly fits that bill.’ ‘Well, she’s changed, Ross. In fact, she thinks she might even be in love.’ I laugh again. ‘Yeah, roysh. Just leave the two of them to it, would be my basic attitude now. When it all goes to hell on a jetski, they needn’t come running to me expecting me to listen to all the juicy details …’ That’s when, all of a sudden, Sorcha puts her head down and storts using her hand to, like, shield her face. I ask her what’s suddenly wrong and she says that Corrine Wilson just walked past the window – as in, Corrine Wilson who she was in school with? I’m there, ‘Er, are you ashamed to be seen with me or something?’ ‘No,’ she goes, ‘I just don’t want to see her.’ I’m like, ‘Hang on – I thought you two were friends?’ ‘Only on Facebook,’ she goes. ‘If I met her in, like, real life, I honestly wouldn’t know what to say to her.’ It’s then that I realize that I’m still in love with Sorcha and probably always will be. So there I am, roysh, in the cor, on the way out of town, with the seat right back, the sunnies on and The Blue Corpet Treatment on full blast, watching Donnybrook just zip by. It’s as I’m hitting the red light outside Bang & Olufsen that I happen to look in the old rear-view and cop this unbelievable-looking bird – Françoise Boufhal would not be an exaggeration? – sitting in a white-chocolate Clearcoat Lincoln Navigator. She’s singing away to whatever song she’s got on, really giving it loads, which is pretty cute, it must be said, so I end up flicking on the radio then and stort lashing through the presets, trying to find whatever song it is. Turns out it’s, like, ‘Push the Button’ on Today FM. Of course I’m too busy ogling her in my mirror to notice that the lights have turned green and she ends up giving me a blast of her horn, telling me to shift it. One thing I love about birds is attitude – non-menstrual obviously. So suddenly, roysh, I’m driving with one hand while digging out a pen with the other. By the time we’ve hit the the next red light outside Donnybrook stadium, she’s pulled into the bus lane and I’ve written my mobile number down on the back of an old speeding ticket. As moves go, I have to admit, it’s as smooth as an otter in a tux – and it actually works, because when I take away the piece of paper, she’s laughing, shaking her head and keying my number into her iPhone. The next thing, my phone rings and I answer it going, ‘Hey, Babes – what’s the Bill Murray?’ She laughs. She’s like, ‘The what?’ I’m there, ‘Er, beeping me like that? Are you in, like, a rush somewhere?’ but I’m saying it while giving her the big-time come-on. She goes, ‘You were on another planet,’ and I’m there, ‘Oh, I’m on another planet all right! I see you’re, like, a Sugababes fan.’ She laughs. ‘So, what, you read lips?’ I laugh then. ‘I do a lot of things to lips!’ She’s there, ‘Oh my God, this is, like, so random,’ obviously delighted with herself. ‘So what’s your name?’ I’m there, ‘You genuinely don’t know?’ Must be the Oakley Doakleys. ‘I’m, like, Ross O’Carroll-Kelly? In other words, the?’ The lights turn green again and I give it some serious lead, inviting her to, like, chase me, which she does. ‘Oh my God,’ she’s shouting down the phone, ‘come back!’ I give it some brake when I hit the bridge at UCD, just to let her catch up. I look at her across the lane. ‘I’m Branna,’ she goes. ‘Branna O’Neill?’ I’m there, ‘So what are you doing later, Gator?’ which is a famous line of mine. She’s there, ‘I don’t know,’ all giggly – a serious wide-on for me, I can tell. ‘Stuff!’ ‘Stuff? That sounds exciting. Well, do you fancy going for a drink?’ ‘I don’t know,’ she goes. ‘Maybe Blackrock?’ ‘This is like, Oh! My God!’ ‘You say that like it’s a bad thing.’ ‘I’m not saying it’s, like, a bad thing? It’s just, well, I don’t even know you?’ ‘You’re interested, though.’ ‘Oh my God, you so have tickets on yourself, don’t you?’ ‘Hey, I know women well enough to know the signs.’ This kind of shit continues, back and forth, for the next, like, ten minutes, with me patiently going through the phases, edging ever closer to the line. It’s just after we pass my old gaff – the old Spirit of Negative Equity – that I spot something out of the corner of my eye which forces me to slam on the actual brakes. I notice Erika, roysh, walking into the Galloping Green – which is weird enough by itself – except, roysh, she’s in the company of a man old enough to be her actual grandfather. It’s funny, roysh, it’s another one of those times when you immediately know the Jack? I suddenly swing the wheel left and watch Branna disappear in the direction of White’s Cross. ‘Where have you gone?’ she goes and I’m there, ‘I’ll bell you later,’ and I hang up on her. I pull up outside the boozer, then give them a minute or two to get, like, settled in there? At the same time, roysh, I’m thinking, okay, what’s my play here? I know what I’m tempted to do is to ring Fionn and tell him I told you so. I knew he’d an almighty kick in the knackers on the way. When it comes to, like, men, Erika’s only ever been interested in one thing and that thing happens to be moo. She’ll never change. At the same time, I am thinking, poor Fionn. In fairness, the dude was never in her league. He was writng cheques he couldn’t honour and I’m saying that as his friend. I can’t wait to see the look on his face when I tell him she’s back with Toddy. I push the door of the lounge and the first thing I hear is her voice. They’re obviously sat to my immediate left, behind the partition, because I can hear her, like, talking? I don’t know what she’s saying but I can tell from her tone that she’s giving him plenty of tude. The place is empty. The
re’s, like, a TV in the corner with, believe it or not, soccer on it? Manchester Something Or Other against some other random flecks. See, there’s no chance she’d run into anyone who knows her in here. Or so she thinks. I lean against the partition and have a closer listen. I’m still trying to decide whether to just, like, spring out in front of them, when I all of a sudden hear her go, ‘No!’ He’s there, ‘Please. Come away with me – tonight.’ ‘Toddy …’ ‘We could go to Val-d’Isère. The jet’s here – at Dublin Airport. We could be there by midnight.’ ‘It’s over. I told you that months ago.’ ‘You’d love it there. I always said that, didn’t I?’ ‘You said a lot of things.’ ‘But we could talk there – properly talk.’ ‘Talking to you bores me, Toddy. It always did.’ ‘Look, I know things are a mess. But we’re getting that divorce now. This is what we talked about, isn’t it?’ ‘It’s what you talked about. It was only ever a fling for me. Er, get over it?’ ‘Erika …’ ‘I’ve met someone.’ He’s like, ‘What?’ and you can tell straight away that he doesn’t believe her. ‘Who?’ The funny thing is, roysh, I still think she’s going to mention someone other than Fionn? ‘You don’t need to know,’ she goes. ‘You’re not, like, in my life any more.’ He’s there, ‘What does he do?’ big-time Scooby Dubious. ‘He’s a teacher.’ ‘A teacher? Come on, Erika – someone like that can’t make you happy.’ Well, you know how I feel about that. ‘He makes me happy,’ she goes. I hear, then, a crack in his voice – we’re talking actual emotion here? He’s focking deluded if he thinks that’s going to get him anywhere. He’s like, ‘Erika, I already stand to lose everything. That’s fine. It’s a recession. But, well, what I can’t stand to lose is you.’ ‘I think I’m about to throw my lunch up,’ she goes, taking the words right out of my mouth. ‘Do you think being pathetic is going to make me suddenly want you?’ It’s, like, refreshing to see that her being with Fionn hasn’t stopped her being an out and out bitch. I’d, like, miss that? ‘All I was ever interested in was your money,’ she goes. ‘I never made any secret of that and you didn’t particularly mind. But now you don’t have any money …’ ‘That’s not entirely true. There’re two or three of the restaurants, I think I can get them back from the receiver. I mean, they’re still profitable …’ ‘Having sex with you was like being trapped under rubble.’ ‘But there’s actual money there as well. You’re not listening to me. A lot of money. Okay, Regina’s going to take a lot of it, but there’s still more than enough for us to …’ She’s there, ‘Toddy, you’re going to need to start getting your head around this. I don’t want you. Even the idea of touching you makes me sick to my stomach. It was a fleeting thing. It was never going to last. Now, live with it.’ I take that, roysh, as my cue to step out from behind the partition. I’m just there, ‘You heard the lady.’ Erika’s in, like, total shock seeing me suddenly stood in front of her. He is as well? Of course he hasn’t a breeze who I even am. ‘Is this him?’ he tries to go. ‘Your teacher man?’ I feel like actually decking him. I don’t even care how old he is. He’s sat there, roysh, thinking he’s hot shit in his beige chinos and his pink shirt and his blue Ralph Lauren jacket, which are all, like, thirty years too young for him, by the way. One of those old fockers who can’t act or dress his age. And the hair still dyed off his head. I go, ‘No, actually. I happen to be her brother. And, before you ask, the answer is yes, I probably do have some feelings for her as well.’ From his reaction, I don’t think he was going to ask. ‘Ross,’ she goes, ‘I can handle this. Go away.’ I’m like, ‘I’m not going anywhere. Not until he’s out of here.’ He laughs. He’s some balls, I’ll give him that. I can’t get that whole sorbet episode out of my head. I fix him, roysh, with this seriously threatening look and I go, ‘Dude, do yourself a favour – get in your little plane and fock off to your little makey-up place, whatever the fock it’s called. If I hear that you’re ever giving my sister Hasselhoff again, you can consider yourself already decked. Now hit the bricks, old boy.’ There’s no doubt, roysh, that I’ve put the serious shits up him. He stares at me, then he looks at Erika, presumably for back-up, though none comes. ‘Don’t ever call me again,’ she just goes. He stands up, roysh, knocks back what’s left of his Cabernet Sauvignon, straightens his jacket, then walks out, stopping once and obviously considering saying something nasty to her. ‘Don’t even think about insulting the lady,’ I go. He thinks better of it, then disappears out the door. Erika just fixes me with a look and tells me I’m a wanker. She’s like, ‘Sad and a wanker.’ The old man says he’s never seen anyone work so fast. If this were a unionized operation, he says, I could expect a tap on the shoulder, then a polite word from one of these, inverted commas, shop stewards, telling me to slow down – that’s the work of two men you’re doing there, Comrade. ‘Of course there’ll be no unions,’ he goes. ‘I merely mentioned it to illustrate my point that you’re a hard worker, Ross …’ I do have to admit, roysh, I find the actual shredding sort of, like, calming – even therapeutic? ‘Every document I put in there,’ I go, ‘I picture it as McGahy’s focking head,’ except what he says in reply actually surprises me. ‘That’s a common trait in people, Ross, and it’s more and more in evidence in the current economic whatnot – people always seek to find a human form for their unhappiness. Not so long ago it was your mother, you’ll remember. What’s she earning? What’s she spending? Or it was poor old Seanie Fitz. Oh, it’ll be Fingers Fingleton next, you see if it isn’t. Of course, nobody cared a jot who any of these people even were while the tills were ringing like the bells of St Mary’s.’ He puts what’s left of his sandwich back in the Tupperware box it came in. ‘Cottage cheese,’ he goes, like we’re suddenly sharing a joke, presumably about Helen. ‘On about my – inverted commas – cholesterol again.’ He stands up. ‘Now, are you absolutely sure you don’t mind me leaving you on your own?’ I’m there, ‘Dude, I know how to drive this thing. It’s cool. Take the afternoon off.’ ‘Oh, I shan’t be taking the afternoon off, Ross. No, no, I’ve discovered the identity of the chap supplying Sheridans with their famous Comté Marcel Petite. I’m going to take a spill down to Wexford to see if I can’t get me some. These are the lengths to which we must go if we’re to remain successful in business.’ He focks off. I finish shredding the three bags that are left, then I climb over the back of the driver’s seat and stick the key in the engine. I’ve only got, like, two more pick-ups scheduled for the afternoon. I might even give JP or Fionn a ring, maybe go for a few early scoops. I’m putting Old Amnesia into reverse, roysh, when a cor suddenly pulls up behind me, instantly blocking me in, then I end up nearly shitting seven colours because it turns out to be, like, the Gords? I’m immediately telling myself to calm down – as the old man said, anything incriminating back there is good for fock-all now except confetti. Then I watch in the rear-view as two – get this – lady cops get out and I relax a bit. They’re both suddenly stood at my window. I wind it down and go, ‘What can I do you for, ladies?’ and that’s when I get my second sudden shock. I know one of them? And yeah, I do mean in that way. She’s there, ‘Hellaw, Ross,’ and I’m like, ‘Er, hey, Breege,’ the events of the night coming back to me fast. ‘So,’ she goes, ‘this is what you’re doing now, is it?’ taking in what it says on the side of the van. ‘That’s right,’ I go, ‘this country’s dirty little secrets aren’t going to shred themselves,’ at the same time hating myself for using one of my old man’s lines. There’s this, like, awkward silence then and I decide that there’s something I should possibly say. ‘I’m, er, sorry again about that night – well, morning. Like I said to you, I was never one for the big Grey’s Anatomy goodbyes.’ She actually laughs. I think country birds are more forgiving – possibly grateful they’re getting any. The other one pipes up then. The only reason I haven’t gone into any detail about her, by the way, is because she’s one of the ugliest life forms I’ve ever set eyes on. I wouldn’t touch her wi
th asbestos focking gloves. ‘Is this the fella?’ she goes. ‘Ah, lads!’ Ugly or not, I’ve always been weirdly aroused by the way country women call each other lads. Breege says yeah, it’s him all right, then ends up going through the entire focking story again, even though most of, like, Harcourt Terrace has probably already heard it. ‘He was trying to sneak out without saying goodbye,’ she goes. ‘He says, “I’m not into the old post-match chat.” I says, “That’s fair enough, Ross – but this is your apartment!”’ ‘I think I might have been sleepwalking that morning,’ I end up going, which makes them laugh even more. I notice Breege then cop a sly look at my tax and insurance – they can’t focking help themselves, can they? So I go, ‘Anyhoo,’ trying to hurry the conversation along, ‘what is this, just a catch-up?’ They both get suddenly serious. ‘I hear you’ve moved apartment,’ Breege goes, ‘since that night.’ I’m there, ‘Don’t even focking stort me – I got stitched like a quilt. I rang your crowd by the way. They’d no focking interest.’ She doesn’t look like she has either – at least in my side of the story. She’s there, ‘It sounds to me like a civil matter.’ Which are the exact same words they used in, like, Kill of the Grange? Being a Gord must be like working in a focking call centre, where there’s, like, a set answer to every complaint people make. ‘You’re living next door to a couple of dangerous characters,’ the wreck goes. I’m there, ‘Yeah, that’s not the kind of thing you could fail to focking notice, you know.’ She smiles and says she supposes not. ‘My sister works in the Special Branch,’ Breege goes and I’m presuming it’s the sister she was with in Kehoes that night, the one who drinks like a focking sieve. ‘They’re trying to build a case against them …’ I suddenly cut in. ‘Oh and let me guess,’ I go, ‘she wants access to my aportment so they can plant, like, a listening device in the wall?’ The thing is, roysh, I’m only, like, ripping the piss saying it, but it turns out that’s what they actually want? I can immediately tell from the way they exchange, I suppose, glances. I’m there, ‘You’ve got to be shitting me! Someone’s watched too many episodes of The Wire. The answer, I’m afraid, is no.’ She nods, pretty much accepting my answer. ‘You probably should tell your son to stay away from them,’ the other one goes and I’m left in sudden shock. I’m there, ‘You … You know about Ronan calling in there?’ Breege goes, ‘Like I said, they’ve been building a case. Have a think about it. I know you’ve been getting a hard time from them. It might be a way to get them out of your life, once and for all …’ Fionn rings and the first thing he says to me is, like, thanks. ‘Erika told me,’ he goes, ‘about, well, the scene with Toddy? She said you handled it very well.’ Has to be said, it’s nice to get the big-up. ‘I, er, don’t think she actually needed my help,’ I go. ‘She was doing a pretty good job of telling him to go fock himself before I even arrived on the scene?’ ‘Well, she said he was being quite insistent. And she doesn’t know what would have happened had you not been there.’ She’d never say that straight to me, of course – wouldn’t give me the pleasure of knowing. ‘Look,’ I go, ‘I have to say, I’m still struggling with the whole idea of you two, you know, doing whatever you’re doing together. Still freaks me out a bit …’ ‘I know.’ ‘Plus, I still think you’re going to end up getting kicked in the mebs. Enjoy it while it lasts is the best advice I can give you.’ He laughs and goes, ‘Again, thanks, Ross. You really are a good friend.’ The old dear has decided to skip town, just until the whole, I don’t know, controversy over her trying to cook the Fair City cat on live television has died down. She’s got, like, the paparazzi outside the gate – day and night – and then there’s, like, the death threats? One or two so-called animal rights heads have been on, promising to do this, that and the other to her. Of course there’s no telling them that the cat was already dead when she seasoned it and shoved that onion in its mouth. I suppose that’s why they call them extremists? I tell her she can’t let these people drive her out of her home. ‘Can I remind you of something that happened when I was a little kid?’ I go, the two of us sitting in the kitchen in Foxrock. She looks suddenly worried. ‘No, it’s not actually bad?’ I end up having to go. ‘No, there was this one day – I was, like, eight, maybe nine – and we were coming out of Sydney Vard, do you remember that?’ ‘On South Anne Street …’ ‘Yeah, when that bird with the dreadlocks shouted, “Murderer!” and threw a bucket of red paint over you?’ ‘Oh,’ she goes and puts the back of her hand against her forehead, a bit Emma focking Thompson with the dramatics. ‘My brand-new mink shawl jacket!’ I’m there, ‘But do you remember what you did next?’ She suddenly smiles. ‘Yes, I turned around, walked back into the shop and bought another one.’ ‘And do you remember what you said to the bird on the way out the door the second time?’ ‘If I keep buying them, they’ll keep killing them!’ I laugh. ‘God, I was so proud of you that day.’ ‘Were you, Ross?’ ‘Big-time. I mean, yeah, I probably called you a sad sack and told you to stop focking embarrassing me, but deep down I would have been thinking fair focks. I might have even learned a lesson from you that day – might explain why I’m not prepared to just hand over my Leinster Schools Senior Cup medal. Because you stood up for yourself. You didn’t allow yourself to be intimidated …’ She says she’s not being intimidated now. She just needs a break, which is why she’s booked a week in the Corinthia Grand in Budapest. I stort flicking through the brochure. ‘They call it a luxury hotel,’ she goes, ‘though it’s more of a monarchial residence. Oh, it totally invokes the atmosphere of the Austro-Hungarian Empire,’ which she obviously means as a good thing. ‘Which it just what I need, with the country going the way it’s going. Here’s an idea, Ross! Why don’t you come with me?’ ‘Come with you?’ ‘Yes! You need a holiday as much as I do. With all you’ve been through this year? Do you a power of good to get away from that bloody juvenile detention facility you’ve found yourself living in.’ I laugh. ‘No,’ I go, ‘I’ve got, er, well, work …’ She smiles. I still stand by what I’ve always said – she looks focking revolting when she does that. ‘Work!’ she goes, genuinely amazed. ‘Your father, by the way, thinks you’ve a real gift for it.’ I’m there, ‘I wouldn’t get too carried away. I’ll do it for a little while longer, get a deposit together, maybe finally get out of – like you say – Wheatfield.’ She smiles, then says she’d better get on the road or she’ll miss her flight. ‘You know what the M50 is like,’ she goes, ‘and I expect I’ll have my bloody photographer friends on their motorcycles with me the entire way.’ It’s, like, Saturday afternoon, roysh, and I’m sitting in, watching TV, knocking back a few Richard Geres and generally chillaxing after my first full month on the job. That’s when I go and do something that I immediately end up regretting. It’s probably a mixture of Heineken and curiosity that gets the better of me but I end up putting a pint glass to the wall and having a bit of a listen to whatever shenanigans are going on next door. I’d seen it done on, like, TV and shit but I had no idea that it actually worked. Larry and Terry have company and I can tell you this – they’re not watching the E! channel’s special on the feud between Lindsay Lohan and Hilary Duff. ‘Will yast me bollix – a Walther!’ this voice goes. It’s not Terry or Larry talking. It’s, like, whoever their visitor is? ‘Do ye know fooken athin? The fooken ninety-nine’s a rip-off of the bleatin seventeen …’ ‘Worra bout the XD?’ That’s Larry. ‘The XD?’ the original dude goes. ‘Monta fock ourra dat, will ye, witcher XD! It’s MA1s next and M and fooken Ps …’ It continues like that for the next, I don’t know, five minutes or so. Loads of letters, loads of numbers and loads of telling each other to go and fock yourself. I’m thinking it must be like teaching algebra to kids in Clondalkin. ‘Just point it, Tetty, and puddle the fooken trigger – don’t woody, it’s not loated – then teddle me what ye tink …’ ‘Hee-er, stall the ball – are ye asthin me or telling me?’ ‘Tetty, just puddle the fooken trig
ger …’ There’s, like, silence for maybe ten seconds, roysh, then I hear this sudden click. Terry cracks his hole laughing, then the other two join in. ‘I fooken luff it,’ Terry goes. The other dude’s like, ‘I told ye – why wooten ye? The orichinal Glock is stiddle the best – noyin millimether, high-power, semi-authormathic. It’s veddy loigh. It’s made ourra advaddenced syntetic polymers – plastic to the loikes of youden I. It’s small, easy to conceal and veddy easy to hughes – veddy few pieces, see. I moigh also add that it’s the most redliable piece there is – neffer, ever jaddems …’ ‘We’ll take all torty,’ Larry instantly goes, ‘if dats what ye have.’ The dude laughs. He’s like, ‘Mister Van Voorden will be veddy happy to heerd it.’ In my mind, roysh, I imagine them shaking hands to – I suppose – seal the deal? Again, that might be me watching too much TV. Then I hear Terry ask him if he fancies a drink. He’s like, ‘Nah, I bethor split …’ It’s at that exact point, roysh, that there’s a sudden knock on the door. As in their door? You can tell that they all nearly shit themselves. ‘Who the fook is that?’ the – obviously – orms dealer goes. Terry’s like, ‘I haffent a fooken clue.’ ‘I swear to fook, Tetty, if that’s the law …’ ‘Do ye tink the fooken law would knock?’ He probably has a point. ‘Joost ansod it,’ Larry goes. The next thing I hear is Terry turning the key in the lock and I’m, like, picturing him at the same time holding the gun behind his back. I hear him pull down the handle and slowly open the door. Then I hear three words that end up giving me a pretty much hort attack. ‘Ah, howiya, Ronan.’ I feel like automatically screaming out, telling him to get the fock out of there. But then, I don’t know, reason takes over and I’m thinking that any sudden noise or movement could be actually fatal here? ‘I brought this back,’ I hear his little voice go. ‘What is it?’ Terry goes. ‘Ah, the Burden It Dunne tee-fee-tee …’ Ro did mention that they lent him, like, a boxing DVD. ‘Shuren that was a gift, Ro.’ ‘Was it?’ ‘Yeah, from Laddy and me …’ ‘Oh. Tanks, Tetty.’ ‘Not a bodder …’ There’s, like, silence then. Ronan’s obviously waiting for an invite in. ‘Er, we’re in the mithel of something he-eer, Ro – I’m goin to haff to go …’ ‘Er, okay.’ Except he’s obviously not okay? He actually sounds a bit hurt. ‘Birra business – yunderstand?’ Then the door suddenly closes. I take the glass away from the wall, roysh, and I stand there in total silence. I suppose I’m waiting for him to knock on my door. He must be thinking about it because I don’t hear him move for, like, twenty or thirty seconds. I’ve got, like, my eyes closed, thinking, I’ll watch Bernard Dunne with you. I’ll watch Bernard Dunne with you day and focking night. Just knock, Ro. Please just knock. The next thing I hear is him walking away. Then the elevator doors open and he’s suddenly gone. I storm back into the living room – in a bit of a rage, to be fair – and I whip out my phone. I scroll down and find Breege’s number. I end up just staring at it for maybe even a minute, even though, deep down, I know what I’m going to do. I hit dial. ‘Hellaw,’ she goes. That accent – wherever the fock Mullingor even is. ‘Hey,’ I hear myself go. ‘You can tell your sister I’ll do it.’ * She’s getting drenched – and we’re talking totally. I open up the umbrella and just hold it over her. She doesn’t say a word, just looks up at me – big blue eyes – then gives me a smile, as if to say, my hero! ‘Thought I’d come and keep you company,’ I go. ‘It’s your last hour, isn’t it?’ and she goes, ‘Oh my God, yeah,’ thrilled, of course, that I remembered. She’s back scraping old posters, by the way, this time down by Pearse Street Dort Station. I stand there holding the umbrella, just watching her work. Then I end up having to laugh. ‘The Dubai Overseas Property and Resorts Show!’ I go. ‘We were too busy buying up other people’s countries to realize that we didn’t even own this one. We’ve some stones, us, don’t we – as, like, a nation?’ Then I just shake my head. ‘By the way, do you know what’s going to be announced any day now?’ I go, making a grab for my medal out of, like, instinct. ‘A date for my own hearing, slash, trial, slash, whatever you want to call it.’ ‘That’s great,’ she just goes, then continues working the scraper, then just when I think she’s not going to say anything more on the subject, she actually does. ‘Look, I’m, like, a hundred percent behind you, Ross? But just remember – ask yourself, what is it about you that people love? And I’m talkng about the people who actually matter, Ross. Is it that medal? Or is it you?’ And I’m left just thinking about that while she scratches off the last corner of the poster. ‘Done!’ she goes, with a real – I know it’s not a word? – but finality? I tell her that’s her debt to society paid and she ends up just giving me this, like, long, lingering hug. Then I go, ‘Come on, I’ll drop you home.’ Half an hour later, we’re pulling up outside the gaff on Newtownpork Avenue. She asks me in but I cop her old dear’s Renault Koleos in the driveway and I sort of, like, hesitate? ‘It’s honestly fine,’ she goes. ‘Really.’ Which it actually turns out to be? Her old dear greets me at the door with – believe it or not – a kiss on either cheek, then Honor comes running out of the kitchen going, ‘Mommy!’ followed by a gasp when she cops me standing there in the hall. ‘Daddy!’ I can’t help but think that this is what it’d be like every day if I hadn’t focked things up in a major way. Old too soon, wise too late. Another of Fehily’s favourites. Sorcha hops into the old Jack Bauer. While she’s in there, roysh, her old dear smiles at me and goes, ‘I should say thank you, Ross.’ I’m like, ‘Er, as in?’ She’s there, ‘Well, you’ll never hear this from Edmund, but Sorcha would never have made it through this year without you …’ That leaves me almost literally speechless. ‘I can’t tell you,’ I go, ‘how amazing it feels to get that kind of a boost.’ ‘Well, like I said, you’ve been so good to her.’ She heads off just after Sorcha gets out of the shower. She’s all, ‘See you tomorrow, Dorling,’ because they’re hitting Roly’s, as a family, to celebrate. When she’s gone, I make a big show of checking my watch, except Sorcha – in only her dressing-gown – goes, ‘Why don’t you put Honor to bed, Ross? I’ll phone for a Chinese …’ It’s funny because I know exactly what’s going to happen here. And I mean exactly? I read Honor her favourite book. It’s kind of, like, a cheat for me because it’s, like, a pop-up book – as in, My Fairy Princess Palace? – and every time I turn a page to reveal a new room in Honeysuckle Hall, Honor goes, ‘Oh my God!’ and I end up having to laugh because she says it exactly the same way as her mother. It doesn’t take long – maybe fifteen minutes – before she’s out like a light. Then I tip downstairs. ‘You know,’ I go, ‘I think that moustache is actually storting to wear off.’ Sorcha even laughs, finally seeing the funny side of it. Then there’s a sudden ring at the door and it’s, like, the delivery dude. Sorcha dishes it up. The mixed vegetable satay for her and the deep-fried squid with chilli and salt for me. It was always our Saturday night thing – on the rare Saturday nights she could get me to stay home. I open a bottle of the old Château les Hauts de Pez and we take everything through to the living room. I stick on the TV, except I put it on mute, and we end up just talking while we eat, which is amazing. When we’ve finished our dinner, I take the plates through to the kitchen and I rinse them off before stacking them in the dishwasher. When I turn around, she’s stood right behind me – as in right behind me – looking up at me, those eyes again. I kiss her. Well, we kiss each other. A long, just amazing kiss that tastes of, like, peanuts and you’d have to say Bordeaux. She pulls away then, takes my fingers in her hand, turns and leads me upstairs to the bedroom – our bedroom. She undresses me slowly. I pull the belt on her dressing-gown, then I peel it off her shoulders and let it fall to the floor. And then we make – believe it or not – love. And I’m not giving you any more details than that. When we’re finished, we end just up lying there, spooning, for an hour, maybe two, drifting in and out of sleep, listening to the rain batter away on the window. ‘I think I�
��m ready now,’ I suddenly hear her little voice go in the dorkness of the room. ‘I’m ready to go through with the divorce.’ I tell her I know she is, already calculating where she dropped my clothes. 10. Only Metal …