The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Nightdress

by Ross O'Carroll-Kelly

  I pulled Pikey to one side and I was like, ‘Where’s your head at?’ and he was there, ‘In a good place. Had the chat with Jessica,’ and I’m there, ‘That’s good. How’d she take it?’ and he goes, ‘Not well, but I can’t afford to dwell on that. This is my only focus roysh now. And if you’ll excuse me, I have business to take care of,’ and he turns around and I just go, ‘YOUDA MAN, PIKEY!’ and under my breath – I’m a dickhead, I know – I go, ‘But I was the man on Monday night.’

  JP rings me and before I have a chance to ask him, roysh, how those new gaffs in Edgeworthstown are selling, he goes, ‘I take it that it was you? Who put Fionn’s diary on the internet?’ and I’m there, ‘What makes you think that?’ and he’s like, ‘Hey there, fellow geeks… really, really, really good-looking, kick-orse rugby player?’ and I crack up laughing and I go, ‘Couldn’t resist that bit. Focking hilarious, isn’t it?’ and JP’s like, ‘Not from my POV. I actually think you’re like Grant Mitchell’s phone – bang out of awder. Sorry, dude.’

  I’m there, ‘Hey, when I told you I was going to fix him you thought it was great,’ and JP’s like, ‘I thought you were going to, like, do an Ivana in one of his Dubes or, like, use his Ralph as a jizz rag – the usual shit we do. I think you crossed the line, dude. I met Fionn today and he is NOT a happy camper,’ and I’m there, ‘You told him it was me?’ and he goes, ‘Ross, the goy’s studying for a PhD. He’s got an IQ higher than mine, yours, Oisinn’s and Christian’s put together – you think he needed to be told? Ross, you need to sort your shit out,’ and I’m there, ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ and he goes, ‘Just that – sort your shit out,’ and he hangs up on me, my so-called friend.

  I’m flaked out on the bed, roysh, stretched out, watching a DVD of our next opponents – as in the boggers of Newbridge College – beating Mary’s in the quarter-finals and I’m, like, basically analysing their strengths, weaknesses, blah blah blah. The next thing, roysh, there’s a knock on the door and who is it only the focking Boy Poet himself, and I can tell straight away that he’s bulling.

  He comes in, but he doesn’t say anything, just plonks himself down in the ormchair in the corner, so I go back to watching Newbridge. After a few minutes I go, ‘I think I’ve spotted a weakness in their back row,’ and Fionn goes, ‘I know it was you, Ross,’ and I just stare at him, as if to say, basically, prove it, and he’s there, ‘She rang me. Your friend, Leilani. She felt bad about what she did,’ and I look at him as if to say, Whatever!

  I think we’re actually going to murder this team in the lineout. He goes, ‘I went to see Sorcha tonight,’ and I’m there, ‘What did you do – shout poems up at her focking window?’ and he’s like, ‘I came here to apologize, Ross,’ and I pause the match, thinking, Grovelling, this is more like it. He goes, ‘My feelings for Sorcha are real. It’s just I should have told you years ago.’ What a tool. I go, ‘Apology accepted.’

  He goes, ‘But what you did, Ross, was an unforgivable violation of my privacy,’ and I’m there, ‘I was actually trying to get you off Sorcha’s case. I wanted her to see what kind of a focking wacko you really are. Poems that don’t rhyme? What were you focking thinking of?’

  He sits down on the side of the bed, takes off his glasses and rubs his face. The focker looks tired, like he hasn’t slept in a week, which he probably hasn’t. He puts his glasses back on and goes, ‘I was surprised, you know. At how well Sorcha took it. She actually said she thought it was sweet. Well, not that it ended up on the internet obviously, but the fact that I had all these feelings for her and was able to subjugate them for so long.’

  I don’t believe it, roysh, the focker’s actually got me feeling sorry for him. I grab a couple of Britneys from the minibor, crack them open and hand him one. I go, ‘Did you tell her it was me who put it on the internet and shit?’ and he’s there, ‘No. I told her it was me,’ and I end up dribbling a mouthful of beer down the front of my new Ralph. I’m like, ‘Why would you do that?’ and he goes, ‘She loves you, Ross. I know how much it would devastate her to think you’d be capable of doing something like that,’ and I’m there, ‘So you took the hit?’ and he goes, ‘Not for you, Ross. I did it for Sorcha.’

  He knocks back a couple of mouthfuls of beer, then he goes, ‘I haven’t said anything to Lorcan. I know he gave you my journal, but I can understand why he did it. You manipulate people, Ross. It’s all about getting what you want,’ and I just, like, shrug my shoulders, as if to say, basically, that’s the nature of the beast.

  He finishes his beer and gets up to go. I put out my hand and I go, ‘No hord feelings,’ but he just, like, refuses to shake it. He goes, ‘Don’t misunderstand anything I’ve said here tonight, Ross. I will get you back for this. And that’s a promise.’

  *

  JP texts me this joke, roysh, and it’s like, Why did God invent orgasms? and the answer, roysh, is, So northsiders would know when to stop riding.

  Lauren’s in bits, roysh, and it’s pretty understandable, I suppose, what with her old man looking at a ten-stretch. We’re standing outside the Four Courts and she’s got her head buried in Christian’s chest and she’s going, ‘This is, like, SO unfair. He’s being hounded, like some common criminal,’ and Christian’s reminding her that Han Solo’s friends didn’t give up on him, even after he was frozen in carbonite and hung like some decoration on the wall of Jabba’s Palace, but it doesn’t seem to cheer her up at all.

  She’s going, ‘But he’s innocent, Christian,’ and of course I have to bite my tongue to stop myself pointing out that he’s actually pleaded guilty. I’m not about to go joining any escape committee to get Hennessy out of the slammer. The goy can rot in there for all I care – the old man gave him a hundred and fifty thousand sheets to stick in an offshore account, basically as a deposit on a gaff for me one day, roysh, but the last time Toss Features went to visit him in the Joy, the dude refused to see him, his so-called best friend, so it’s pretty obvious the sponds are history.

  I’m not one to hold a grudge – I’ll get the bread out of the old man anyway – and though I couldn’t give a fock if Hennessy ends up spending the rest of his days sewing mailsacks and shitting in a bucket in a six-by-four cell, Christian and Lauren are my friends and I want to, like, be there for them, just like they’ve been there for me. See, some of us have what we call sensitivity, though where I

  inherited it from I don’t know. I see Knob Head coming from a focking mile away and it’s obvious, roysh, that he’s only come here to gloat, not giving a fock about Lauren, who’s supposed to be, like, his goddaughter. He breezes along the road towards the court, roysh, a big stack of, like, papers under his orm, just to make him look important, and just as he’s passing Charlie Bird, roysh, he looks into the TV camera and he goes, ‘Let’s cut the cancer of corruption out of our society once and for all,’ then he turns around and asks the cameraman if he got that on tape, or if he’d like him to do it again. Charlie Bird – who obviously hasn’t got a bog who the old man is – just, like, butts in and goes, ‘We’re waiting for Hennessy Coghlan-O’Hara to arrive,’ and the old man’s like, ‘Just thought you might value the view of one of your licence-payers.’

  The old nosebag in the Joy mustn’t agree with Hennessy, roysh, because when he arrives he looks about five stone underweight – must be down to about sixteen now – and as these two heavy-looking Feds are leading him from the back of the prison van into the court, Lauren’s giving it, ‘I love you, Daddy,’ and he’s going, ‘I love you, Lauren,’ and they’re both bawling and I have to say, roysh, you’d have to be pretty hord-hearted not to be moved by…

  My Wolfe rings. The screen’s like, Private Number, but I answer it and it’s, like, One F from The Stor. He goes, ‘Seems your success with Castlerock has made you a wanted man. The grapevine is, shall we say, abuzz with rumours that we’re soon going to be seeing you plying your coaching wares at a certain club out Stradbrook way in the not-too-distant. I’m thinking in terms of World Exclus
ive here. I’m thinking, eighty-four-point banner headline. Care to comment?’ I go, ‘Are you serious?’ and he’s like, ‘I’m as serious as the Tet Offensive,’ and I’m there, ‘Sorry, One F, you’ll have to talk to my agent,’ only remembering after I hang up that my agent – the goy who got me my boot deal with Elverys – is up there in the dock in Court Two.

  Me, Christian and Lauren sit at the back of the public gallery and the rest of the goys arrive together, we’re talking Oisinn, we’re talking JP and we’re talking Fionn, who carries on like nothing ever happened between us. The old man stands up for the entire hearing, leaning over the rail, making hangman gestures to Hennessy, like he’s in The Godfather or some shit. The actual case itself, roysh, is pretty boring – it’s all blah-blah-this and blahdy-blah-that – and I end up spending most of the morning getting an eyeful of these two lawyer birds, wondering how many shekels it’d cost to keep something like that interested.

  Bang! Seven years, with the last two suspended, which is a result basically. He’ll be out in, like, three. Hennessy’s got this big, like, shit-eating grin on his face, but Lauren’s howling like a focking banshee, roysh, and Christian has to take her outside. Wank Features leans over the railing and goes, ‘JUSTICE WAS NOT SERVED HERE TODAY!’ and the judge tells him that unless he’s careful, he’ll cite him for, like, contempt and the old man turns to some total stranger beside him and storts muttering about the disgrace of tax evasion and, like, hospital ward closures.

  The stupid tosser catches my eye then and he goes, ‘Justice was most certainly served at Donnybrook last week. I was at the game, Ross. Wonderful rugby,’ and before I get the chance to call him a tool and tell him to drop dead, some old dude in a suit just, like, sidles up to him and goes, ‘Charles O’Carroll-Kelly?’ and the old man goes, ‘No interviews, I’m afraid. I’m keeping my powder dry in case “Questions and Answers” want me on,’ and the goy goes, ‘No, I’m not a, em… look, Adam Bagshaw is my name. From Baggot and Leggit Solicitors. We instructed counsel for Mr Coghlan-O’Hara in this case. Our client asked that I give you this,’ and he hands the old man a piece of paper. The old man’s like, ‘What is it, a recipe for a cake with a file in it?’ and the dude looks over his shoulder, roysh, and goes, ‘It’s the number for a bank account in Liechtenstein. Hennessy moved your money there when he found out the Revenue were on his case. He didn’t want to see you in Mountjoy that day because he was afraid he was being listened to, if you know what I’m saying.’

  Knob Head’s just left standing there in, like, total shock. I just walk off. Christian’s managed to calm Lauren down, though he’s got half her face on his new Henri Lloyd. He’s saying he’s not going back to work and she’s going, ‘You have to, Christian. You’ve got that consignment of Clone Wars animated figures arriving. I know how much that means to you,’ but he goes, ‘I think this is, like, slightly more important,’ and it’s true, roysh, the goy is a focking rock.

  Ten minutes later the old man suddenly, like, emerges and breezes down the steps of the court. TV 3 are interviewing people outside, asking them if they thought that justice had been basically served. The old man nearly breaks his focking Gregory trying to get on. He goes, ‘There’ll be an appeal, you can bet your last dime on that. This is not justice. It’s mass hysteria generated by bloody Commie journalists who wouldn’t know how to do a hard day’s work, never mind fan the flames of the economy like that good man, who we’ve just seen hauled off to prison in handcuffs, like someone from one of these frightful local authority housing estates. What I want to say to your viewers tonight is: Judge not lest you be judged yourself, with a capital J.’

  Birds are, like, total focking headwreckers. I get, like, two calls in the space of, like, five minutes, roysh, and the first one is from Jessica and she’s going, ‘Andrew’s finished with me, you are SUCH a wanker,’ and I’m there, ‘Hey, the goy wants to concentrate on his rugby. They’re saying he’s going to captain the Irish schools team Down Under, as in basically Australia,’ but it does fock-all to win her around. She storts, like, bawling her eyes out, giving it, ‘Oh my God, ISO want him back,’ and I’m there, ‘Just give him his space, just until Paddy’s Day,’ thinking I don’t want her wrecking his head like she’s actually wrecking mine.

  She goes, ‘It’s, like, SO hord, though. I miss him SO much,’ and I swear to God, roysh, I am SO tempted to tell her to ring the Samaritans, or at least someone who actually gives a shit, except that I need her to be cool roysh now. I don’t want her getting all hysterical and telling Pikey in a moment of honesty that I boned her. I’d totally lose the dressing-room, and we are seriously talking totally here.

  Wouldn’t say we beat Newbridge College in the semi-final as much as totally rubbed their noses in the dirt, which is where they belong, being boggers and everything.

  Fehily called me into his study the day before the game and he goes, ‘Intellectually, I’m no five-eighths of a man, Ross, I know this team of yours are no world-beaters. We have – what? – four, maybe five good players. The rest of them are a joke and not even a good one. And yet what you have achieved, with the limited resources at your disposal, is a miracle on a scale not witnessed since Jesus wept bitter tears over the tyranny of death, the last enemy, and Lazarus got out of the bed and walked,’ and I’m there, ‘That’s pretty high praise,’ but he just, like, raises his hand and goes, ‘But, my child… it will all have been for nothing if we lose to this shower of shite tomorrow.’

  I’m like, ‘I know. Why do they have to let schools like that into the competition in the first place?’ and he’s there, ‘It’s all in the name of social ecumenism,’ and I go, ‘Totally,’ cracking on to know what he’s talking about.

  He goes, ‘I don’t think it’s any secret, Ross, that I’ve got something of a… regard for our friend – the painter from Brauna am Inn. As you know, he considered the theory that all men are created equal to be the most deceitful lie. These people are from, dare I say it, the country, Ross. How many of our Taoisigh went to school there? How many of our great men of industry? Of commerce?’ and I’m like, ‘None?’ and he’s there, ‘Your answer is both correct and wise, my child. We cannot afford to lose this match.’

  I’m like, ‘We won’t. I’ve studied them. I know their weaknesses. They’ve no pace on the wings, they’ve no decent lineout jumpers, their number thirteen doesn’t like being tackled and their back row is focking shite, if you’ll pardon the French,’ and he goes, ‘That’s not French, Ross. That’s vulgarity, and I like it. It demonstrates anger. Reveals passion. Channel it and a place in the Leinster Schools Cup final is ours for the taking.’ I’m just there, ‘And we’re talking totally,’ and I get up to leave, roysh, and as I’m going out the door, he goes, ‘Either the world will be ruled according to the ideas of our modern democracy, or the world will be dominated according to the natural law of force; in the latter case the people of brute force… will be victorious,’ all of which basically translates as, KICK ORSE!

  My big fear was, like, Jessica. I had a feeling she’d end up showing her face. So she turns up in Donnybrook, roysh, with a whole focking gaggle of her UCD mates – one was a honey, the other three were total ditch-pigs – and I’m straight over to her and I’m like, ‘What’s your focking game?’

  It has to be said, roysh, she’s looking pretty well. She’s dressed to kill and she reeks of Dazzling Gold by Estée Lauder. She’s just like, ‘It’s a free country,’ and I go, ‘Do you think it’ll be good for Andrew’s head to know you’re in the crowd?’ and she’s there, ‘HELLO? There’s, like, two thousand people here. I don’t think he’s going to see me,’ and I’m like, ‘He focking dumped your orse. Learn to live with it. It’ll make it easier in the long run,’ and then I head for the dugout.

  There were actually more than two thousand people there. The ground was like Howl at the Moon on Mickey Tuesday – basically rammers – and the atmos was, like, electric. It was one of those times when the goys didn’t need a pre-match t
alk. They were, like, so psyched up they wouldn’t have heard it anyway. I just went, ‘You don’t need me to tell you what’s at stake here today. Let’s do them.’

  Pikey scored two tries – one at the end of a sixty-yord run – and Lorcan got over for another after taking a sly little tap penalty. Pikey converted all three and kicked, like, five penalities without reply and at half-time, roysh, I told the goys not to be afraid to showboat a bit in the second half. I’m like, ‘Don’t be worried about humiliating this crowd. Bogball is their game. They need to learn that, even if it is the hord way,’ and the second half was just, like, champagne rugby, the goys passing it to each other through their legs and everything.

  I don’t usually buy The Stor, what with it being a newspaper for poor people, but One F was like, Hold the front page – Castlerock are back! The previously misfiring southsiders hit Newbridge College like a Tonkin gunboat yesterday to clinch a place in the Leinster Schools Cup final for the first time since they lifted the cup in 1999. Whatever was said in the wake of the school’s rather patchy performance in their winter friendlies has certainly worked. And perhaps that should come as no surprise, for the man pulling Castle-rock’s strings now is none other than Ross O’Carroll-Kelly, once a legend as a player, now a legend as a coach. They still have a few more clicks to travel, yet it’s hard to believe that this boy general, who plotted his team’s passage all the way to Lansdowne Road, is still only twenty-three…